


Him

by Octinary



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/M, Gen, Guilt, M/M, Monsters, Multi, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary
Summary: In his time as a witcher, Geralt has killed just about everything that can be killed:  monsters, beasts, constructs, men, even the undead can die again if you know the trick to it.  Wraiths, he knows, are the lingering troubled spirits of people who died tragically, violently, unjustly and unavenged.  Their unfair fate spawns in them a jealousy and hatred of everything living that quickly drives them mad and makes them dangerous and deadly, driven to torment those responsible for their plight.  Usually he feels no more than a twinge of pity as he sends them off again with silver and fire, but then again usually they aren’t haunting him.  Usually they aren’t Jaskier.Geralt learns that Jaskier never made it off the mountain after the dragon hunt and, if that’s what it takes to appease the monster that now wears his face, neither will Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 227
Kudos: 504
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is your friendly reminder to please, please read and heed the tags and decide if this is really something you want to read. I will not be even a little bit offended if you leave; I myself sometimes need to avoid stories with tags like these. And if you’re here because you’ve read anything else I’ve wrote and are thinking, “Hang on, isn’t this the person who wrote that sickeningly sweet thing about Geralt and Jaskier being penpals? And that silly thing where no one got stabbed even though it was literally in the title of the fic? And those humorous misunderstanding fics?” then this is me telling you this isn’t my normal type of story. (If five fics can even a pattern make…) I know I’m being a bit silly now in this note, but in all seriousness this starts dark, gets darker and ends, well, lighter than it started but still a far fucking cry from sunshine and rainbows. Please, please take care of you.
> 
> Also, my apologies if anyone is patiently (or impatiently) waiting for the next story in the Love is Stupid series (aka Lambert actually takes Aiden to Kaer Morhen) that I promised I was working on. I am, I really am, I just had to exorcise this demon first.
> 
> It was supposed to be a one-shot but by the time I had finished writing, it somehow ended up north of 30,000 words, so I broke it into four chapters and I’ll post them as I finish editing them. So probably one a day based on my current schedule.

After the bard has sulked off to torment the dwarves for the details of the ‘dragon-hunt’, Geralt makes camp in the now empty cave. Well, empty of the living at least. Borch, after removing the green dragon’s teeth and safely relocating their egg, reduced his mate’s body to ash with a burst of white-hot flame, ensuring no future adventures could further defile her remains. He did not seem to care enough to extend the same courtesy to the Reaver corpses however, so Geralt begins collecting them into what will become a second pyre. There’s no need to give the necrophages or ogroids on this mountain a free feast and the foul work is a suitable match for his foul mood. He is in no fit state for company or condolences and wants to give everyone else ample time to get as far away from him as possible. He’ll stay here, at the epicentre of his failure and head down alone when the coast is clear.

The indistinct chatter of the others carried to him by the wind fades away quickly and without the outward distraction his thoughts inevitably turn in on themselves. The gold dragon had been right: he had always known that he was going to lose Yennefer. He never deserved her in the first place; it was only the powerful magic of the djinn that had graced him with the small pieces of her he had got to touch and hold for this short time. If he does truly love her, as he purported the night before, then he has to concede that it is a good thing she is now aware of the spell and can free herself from it. Yennefer is power, pure unadulterated chaos, so her teleporting herself out of his life has always been inevitable, yet knowing that doesn’t make the fact of it happening any easier to bear. ‘If onlys’ swirl through his thoughts as he plays undertaker. If only destiny hadn’t saddled him with the unwanted Child Surprise. If only he never found the djinn. If only Jaskier had been able to keep his damn mouth shut in the first fucking place so Geralt would have never felt the need to wish for his silence. If only he’d never met the bard. That stupid, infuriating man who treated him like a person and wasn’t afraid of him and sang brightly and made him think about fairy tales and magic and happy fucking endings so that for a moment in the carnage of a collapsing mansion he’d stopped thinking about his destiny or his duty and selflishly, carelessly, ruthlessly wished for something that he actually wanted. He knows it isn’t the havoc with the djinn or the mess in Cintra that’s making him blame Jaskier though, it’s the hope. Life was so much easier, so much cleaner, so much simpler before the bard taught him how to hope for affection.

He knows it’s a cruel, unjust anger, but he’s a cruel, unjust monster, so he stews in it as he gathers firewood, piles it around the bodies and lights the macabre bonfire with Igni. He’d spent years telling Jaskier he was full of shit, years dragging him through the worst humanity has to offer: racism and rape, murder and man-made monsters, the horrors humans are capable of when tempted by power or prestige or pleasure, and while at times Jaskier’s optimism may have dimmed slightly, it never went out. He still went right on foolishly believing that cruelty was the exception, not the rule, and that no matter how bad things get, it’s always possible to make them better, and that all people, witchers included, are inherently worthy of love. If nothing else, given the look on Jaskier’s face as Geralt had turned away, he’d at least finally freed him from that illusion. He doubted the bard was ever going to think Geralt was worth his time, let alone his pity or compassion, again. And it shouldn’t fucking sting since driving Jaskier off has always been inevitable as well anyway. Jaskier’s stubborn friendship was always worth more than Geralt could possibly repay. They will both, sorceress and bard, be better off without him and he can go back to the way he has always been: solitary, independent, and unbeholden to anyone. Just the way he likes it. Or at least the way he was accustomed to before he’d known to dream of anything else.

By midnight, Geralt is no longer angry at Jaskier, just angry at himself. By morning, he’s no longer angry at all, there’s just a hollow, but familiar sense of being empty and alone as he starts the long trek back to Roach. By mid-morning he’s picked up the obvious trail of the homeward bound dwarves and can tell that it has been crossed by the signs of a few ogroids in the area, probably a small hunting party of nekkers. It’s unlikely they would have given the returning dragon-hunters any trouble though; even nekkers aren’t foolish enough to attack an armed ensemble of humanoids. Especially not if there is easier prey afoot. They would surely be cocky enough to try jumping a single traveller, but Geralt is more than a match for half a dozen or so nekkers and so he is unconcerned. Or should be unconcerned. But there is a niggling hint of wrongness tugging at his guts, setting his teeth slightly on edge and raising the little hairs on the back of his neck. It takes him an hour or so to figure out exactly what is bothering him: there have been no signs that Jaskier was travelling with the rest of the party as they worked their way down the mountain. But surely he wouldn’t have taken off on his own? He said he was going to get the story from the others, didn’t he? He would have at least stayed with them until he was back to civilization, right? The wrongness grows and billows into fear in the pit of his stomach, fed by every passing minute without a trace of Jaskier’s scent or a hint of Jaskier’s footfall. By lunch, he’s terrified, barrelling down the mountain like a madman, desperately trying to outrun the looming logical conclusion.

He catches the dwarves at supper in the same inn where the damned hunt began, clearly celebrating their good fortune. Geralt is across the room and has Yarpen pulled out of his seat and suspended at his eye level, feral yellow locked on pale blue, before the others can draw their weapons. His lips pull back into a snarl as he spits out, “Where’s the bard?”

Yarpen, equally incensed, starts blustering before the question is even finished. “They’re our prize, mate! You had your shot at the creature, but we-”

“I don’t give a fuck about the dragon teeth. Where’s Jaskier? He said he was going to speak with you.”

“Aye, he did.” Yarpen writhes in Geralt’s grip and the witcher lets him drop ‘til he’s standing on his recently vacated chair, but keeps his hands balled tight in the dwarf’s shirt as an ongoing incentive to cooperation. The dwarf looks around conspiratorially and drops his voice. “Although it’s not like we had much to say, seeing as we missed the whole damned production, stuck frozen in place by your bitch.” He narrows his eyes. “Which is not the song we sang when we turned the teeth into King Niedamir so you better not-”

Geralt cuts him off by shaking him. Violently. “Jaskier!” He can hear the attention of the whole room on him now, feel their eyes boring into him. That is rarely a good position for a witcher to be in, but he can’t find it in him to care. Nothing is registering over the roiling in his gut.

“Fuck if I know!” Pulling away from Geralt as he tries to free himself from the witcher’s grasp, the dwarf overbalances and tumbles to the inn floor. He glares viciously up at him, pride and posterior wounded. “He’s your friend. Why isn’t he with you?”

Geralt flinches and takes a few steps back, panting. He whirls to the barmaid, “Please, miss-” But she screams and drops her serving tray, hiding her face in her hands. Gritting his teeth, he turns to the room at large and bites out, “Anyone! Has anyone seen a bard come through here yesterday or today? Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, talkative.” No one will meet his gaze, not after an animalistic display like that, but even worse, no one seems to register the description. “Friendly. Would have been carrying a lute.” There are no flashes of understanding or gasps of caught breath in the crowd. Just sour sweat and fear. “Please…”

There’s a clatter at the door and he turns to find armed men, visibly nervous, but their grips on their weapons aren’t shaking. Cautious, but professional. The one in front clears his throat and gets as far as, “Look, we don’t want any trouble-” before Geralt has pushed past them out of the tavern. Roach is dancing in place, anxious and upset, but too well trained to have bolted despite the fact her rider had simply dismounted and left her fully tacked and untethered in the middle of the street. He’s back in the saddle and they’re galloping out of town before anyone else can think of accosting them. He’s being hard on her, he knows that, but he’s driven by the insatiable need to get back as quickly as possible, full almost to bursting with the overbearing compulsion to be doing something, anything, and cursing himself with every curse he knows for his anger and apathy. Not that the speed does him any good. It still takes him three days to find the body.

*

Both femurs and tibias, but only one fibula. Both radiuses and ulnas, but only one humerus. Nine ribs, twenty-two vertebrae, most of the pelvic bones, both clavicles, but neither scapula. No phalanges, metacarpals or metatarsals either, although those were probably small enough to have been eaten; dexterous fingers crunched to dust between hungry teeth. A skull. Geralt finds the bones scattered about a clearing that reeks of nekker, all fresh, all picked clean and all chewed on. He doesn’t know how long he stands there staring mutely at his collection while the reality he’s been desperately trying to out race settles like a shroud on his shoulders. He’s carelessly killed his best friend. He’d let the bard accompany him, tacitly assumed responsibility for his safety, and then, in one moment of petty and unjustified rage, abandoned the man to monsters on the mountain. A failure as a witcher. A failure as a friend.

He hasn’t slept in three days so time is starting to behave a little oddly, he feels himself falling between blinks sometimes, but he is still surprised to find that it seems to have suddenly grown dark. He knows it can’t be night yet and looking up he can see he’s correct; the wind has just picked up and blown in dark clouds and thick tendrils of fog are melting out of the encroaching shadows from the encircling trees and he begins to think it has happened unnaturally quickly just a split second before his medallion begins to vibrate softly. And then he thinks, ‘Oh,’ and falls to his knees before the pile of remains. It isn’t a complete skeleton, but it’s apparently enough.

Despite being no more than a hoarse whisper, the voice he’s been desperately searching for booms like accusing thunder in his ears. “Geralt?”

It takes him a long time to work up the courage to stand, turn and face Jaskier. The bard is hard to distinguish from the fog and shadows surrounding his insubstantial form, but his blue eyes are reflecting an unnatural amount of light. He’s clasping his hands in front of him, fiddling with his fingers in an anxious and familiar manner and his face seems to flicker between various portraits of fear and pain. Which is probably how he looked when he died. Although as he takes a tentative step towards the witcher, the barest suggestion of a smile almost wins through. "You came to save me."

It lands like a physical blow on his chest, beating the air out of him. “No.”

“You did! You big softie.” He knocks Geralt’s arm playfully, in the unarmoured section below the pauldron and above the bracer, but while his hand looks normal (long, slender fingers and carefully manicured nails), Geralt can feel claws and the sharp sting from a point of drawn blood. The contact seems to do something for Jaskier: though his form remains ethereal, his personality seems to solidify and through the dimness Geralt can now see he’s dressed in the gaudy red outfit he died in. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me for long. I’m far too charming. And it was, after all, your fault really.” His bright eyes flick nervously around the clearing. “I knew you’d come. I’ve been waiting for you. Did you kill the monster?” Before Geralt can respond, a look of intense pain bursts across his face, accompanied by the all too familiar shriek of a wraith in the all too familiar timbre of the bard. He winks out of existence and reappears a few steps back from the witcher, arms wrapped tightly around himself and shivering. “Geralt, I- I think something’s wrong.”

Everything is wrong. Jaskier should not be dead. Geralt shouldn’t have lost his temper, shouldn’t have left him alone, shouldn’t have let him come with him in the first place. Their entire friendship was a selfish mistake and he’d known it from the moment they’d met. But he was just so fucking weak. And now Jaskier’s immortal soul is paying the price. 

“Geralt? Help me. What are you-” Jaskier cuts himself off with a whimper and a shudder.

He pushes back against the flood of emotion, feeling the tension of doing so physically bloom in his tired muscles, but losing control will not help anything. Years of training come back to him in Vesemir’s steady voice, ‘Wraiths are the lingering tormented souls of those who die with a sense of having been wronged. They’re usually tied to this plane by their remains, and will manifest if they think their link is threatened. Fire for the corpse; silver for the spirit. It’s best to get them early while-’

He cuts off the rest of memory and repeats the important part to himself like a mantra to keep his mind from the next line of the lecture as he turns to his bag to fumble for an accelerant - alcohol or oil, anything to help the still wet bones burn. _Fire for the corpse; silver for the spirit. Fire for the corpse; silver for the spirit. Fire for the-_

“Please!” Jaskier moans, starting softly and building to not quite a full wail, but enough to break Geralt’s concentration, allowing the memory of his teacher to continue, ‘It’s best to get them early while they still remember they were human and before they go mad with-’

“Fire for the corpse; silver for the spirit.” He grits his teeth and smashes a bottle of White Gull on the pile of gathered remains. When the burst of flames from his cast Igni catches and burns, Jaskier starts to scream in earnest.

“No! No! Please! Oh gods, no! Geralt! Ah! Why?”

The witcher’s breath hitches in a single sob as he turns, silver sword flashing in the muted firelight as he draws it. Jaskier, terrified and pleading pathetically, begins to back away but Geralt stops him by casting Yrden, anchoring the spectre in place. “Jaskier. It’ll be over soon. I swear. Just let me- I just have to-”

“Please, please don’t.” His sharp blue eyes are wet with streaming tears, but he can’t back out of the magic circle. “Please stop. Please don’t hurt me anymore. Whatever I did, I’m sorry! I’ll be good. Please!”

Geralt swallows around the lump in his throat and shakes his head, emphatically negating Jaskier’s incorrect assumption. “No. You didn’t do anything to deserve this. It was me. I’m-” He can’t force himself to keep talking, so he just clenches his jaw and raises his weapon. _Fire for the corpse; silver for the spirit._

“You can’t even say it, can you? Not even now! Not even like this, you monster!” There’s more raw hatred in the bard’s voice than Geralt has ever heard before, and more than a hint of fang and claw in the fog that clings to him, and oddly enough it helps. It settles him in a way, being addressed as he should have always been addressed, like a key fitting into a lock or a water pooling into a puddle: the painful peace that comes with the still acceptance that finally things between them are the way they always should have been. Finally Jaskier sees him for what he is. Jaskier shrieks as the silver slices through him, but mercifully dissipates quickly. 

When the fog clears, he turns and flees the forest as if pursued by all of hell. Returning to where he’s hobbled Roach, he collapses, emotional and physical exhaustion finally dragging him down. He lies there, knowing it is a foolish place to rest, fully armoured and exposed to any passers-by, but any attempt to change his position seems like more effort than he could possibly muster. As his eyes drift closed, the memory of Vesemir finishes it’s discourse, ‘It’s best to get them early while they still remember they were human and before they go mad with hatred and the endless, indescribable pain of their own existence.’ At least he has managed to spare Jaskier that. At the very, very least.

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, after true night has fallen, to soft sobbing: the hopeless sound of someone who knows there is no possible reprieve. A figure in red with bright blue eyes is huddled into a ball beside him, trying aimlessly to comfort itself by rocking back and forth rhythmically, like a child or wounded animal would. When he sees Geralt’s eyes on him, Jaskier freezes and whimpers, “Please don’t kill me again.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes closed as the tension in his head builds to actual physical pain. “I won’t,” he offers softly, trying vainly to give whatever pathetic comfort he can. He won’t attack Jaskier again. He doesn’t have the heart or the strength to do so, and besides, it won’t help. Jaskier is not a typical wraith. His wronged spirit isn’t bound to his corporeal remains or the place he died. Geralt should have known, should have suspected. Jaskier is a penitent, a rare type of wraith spawned only when the truly innocent are destroyed by the truly evil, and he will return again and again and again and again until he has been avenged. It isn’t anything physical that’s holding him here, forcing him to endure this tortured existence: it’s Geralt’s sin.

*

Like most spectres, Jaskier is weaker in the sunlight. When Geralt wakes in the morning, he can’t see the ghost, but if he had been harbouring any hope that it had all been a painful dream that is thoroughly shattered by the now omnipresent sound of quiet crying and the frantic pulsing of his medallion. He lifts the silver charm over his head and drops it into a saddlebag. It feels weird to be without it, naked in a way he hasn’t felt in decades, but it won’t be of any use to him now. At least not until Jaskier has had his vengeance. Likely it won’t do him much good afterwards either...

If Geralt were a good man, the man Jaskier had deludedly seemed to believe he was, he would have begun trying to solve that problem right away. He knows every minute the bard’s spirit is tethered to him is agony, so the most merciful thing he can do is act quickly. As he is though, he can’t seem to force his feeble mind to focus. When he tries to think he just finds himself staring at the shadows under the trees listening to Jaskier cry, his mind, heart and soul empty. He has no idea how much time passes before Roach nudges him with her nose, breaking the spell. He needs to brush her down properly, he hasn’t since before they started up the mountain, and feed her and probably himself as well. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he also can’t remember the last time he ate. Mind blank, he goes through the motions of caring for Roach, his equipment and finally his own physical needs before turning and heading back into the darkness of the underbrush. He needs to talk to Jaskier and the biting irony of that desire is his first cognizant thought of the day. Roach nickers as he walks away from her again, but obediently does not try to follow. She’s been understandably upset since Jaskier’s manifestation last night, rolling her eyes, flattening her ears, and starting at every snapped twig. She’ll be happier out here.

In the dimmer light a few hundred metres into the woods, Geralt can make out most of Jaskier, luminescent blue eyes wet with tears. The shadows around him seem to cling to his hands and head, giving him claws and horns: a vision of what he’ll become if Geralt can’t free him first. Noticing Geralt’s attention, Jaskier meets his gaze and waits patiently for the witcher to talk.

“Do you know what you are?”

“I’m- I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Geralt can’t respond until he swallows the lump in his throat. “Yes. I’m sorry.” He gives Jaskier a second to process this information before pushing, “Do you remember what happened?”

The bard flickers in and out of existence, seemingly unsure. “There was a monster.”

“A monster?” He’d assumed the nekker hunting party had caught Jaskier. He hadn’t considered the possibility there was something else on the mountain that had got him first and that the nekker’s had just dismembered his corpse while they feasted on the leftovers. Geralt tentatively hoped that was the case. While they weren’t above carrion, when tracking their own prey nekkers prefered their meat disturbingly fresh. Almost anything else would have been a cleaner, quicker end.

“Monsters.” Jaskier clarified, wrapping his arms around himself. “I don’t know how many. I was asleep. I didn’t get a good look at them. They just- just-” He broke off in a piercing wail.

He’d asked mostly out of habit, the witcher in him needing to be able to identify the monster from the mutilated remains, but whatever solace he was trying to get for his guilty conscience wasn’t worth causing Jaskier this distress. “Shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to-”

“They grabbed me while I was asleep and they just- just started eating. Teeth and claws tearing out the meat of my arms, legs, my bowels...” He squeezed his eyes shut and crumpled to the ground. “Oh gods, it hurt- it hurt so much and I was screaming and I wanted to die because I thought it would stop hurting but it hasn’t! Everything still hurts so much! And then you- I thought you were going to save me, but you burned my- And it felt like you set me on fire and it just won’t stop!”

“Shh. Shh.” It’s hard for him to make comforting noises with his teeth grinding together so tightly they hurt, but if he eases any of the tension in his jaw he’s worried he’ll start crying too. He doesn’t deserve the release. He sits on the forest floor, trying to cradle the intangible form as much as he can, but the bard keeps literally slipping through his fingers. “I’ll make it stop.”

“How?”

“You’re a penitent, Jaskier, a wraith that can’t rest until it’s been avenged. You need to-” The answer comes to him unbidden, without forethought or conscious consideration. But it immediately feels right. Inevitable, even. “You need to kill me. You probably won’t be strong enough during the day, so I’ll take Roach into the village and get her taken care of and then, after the sun goes down, you can-”

“No!” The shade in his arms becomes more solid in its distress, heavier than Geralt ever remembered Jaskier being, but it’s not like he lifted him that frequently. The sensation fades quickly though as the spirit keeps murmuring, “No, no, no. I won’t. Gods above, you’re far too quick to jump to that solution. There must be something else we can try, something else you can do. The monsters, what were they?”

“Nekkers.”

“The nekkers. Kill them. Kill them for me. That will work. I know that will work.”

Numb, Geralt can’t do anything but nod in agreement as Jaskier continues to gibber on.

“It will work. Let’s try that, Geralt. Let’s try that first.”

*

It is another few harrowing days before Geralt can track down the band of ogroids. He wants to get this over with as soon as possible, so he doesn’t stop to hunt, gather or trap any food for himself, subsiding solely on hardtack and water and pushing Roach harder than he probably should. She is still anxious and unsettled and Geralt honestly doesn’t know if she can sense Jaskier’s spirit or if she is just picking up on his own degrading mental state. He’s not sure exactly how many days it has been because it is hard to sleep while listening to Jaskier cry; every time he thinks he is growing accustomed to it, a haunting wail forces his mind back to the bard’s description of his death and he boils with the need to do something, anything. But Roach needs to rest, so instead he finds himself laying awake, tense, suffering until the sun rises. It only seems fair. Jaskier died alone, terrified and in unimaginable pain. The least Geralt can do is witness his agony until he can end it.

The nest is small and well concealed and the sun has set giving the advantage to the subterranean nekkers, but Geralt can’t wait and charges in without a plan like an amateur. They surround him quickly, scurrying out of their burrow and darting in and out of his reach in a semi-coordinated fashion. When he swings for the one in front of him, the one behind him jumps in to scratch and bite at his back, but, unlike Jaskier, he has his armour which, augmented by Quen, holds them off. It’s a clumsy fight, the exhaustion he doesn’t consciously feel nevertheless revealing itself in slowed movements and dulled reaction time. But they are just nekkers and ultimately no match for even the most useless of witchers. His mind wanders as he beats them down brutally. _It would have been so easy to save him if I had just been there._ He spins to decapitate the one leaping behind him, easily severing the vertebrae with a sickening snap. _Never found all of Jaskier’s vertebrae._ His sword bites into the neck of another as he follows through on the swing, but his momentum isn’t enough to carry the blade through. He pulls it out and pushes it through the monster chest, punching a hot blast of fetid breath and saliva out of the creature’s gaping mouth and into Geralt’s face. _They ate him alive._ As the last one leaps for him, he instinctively starts to flick his sword up to block, but stops as he’s distracted by the memory of Jaskier’s broken voice, ‘Teeth and claws tearing out the meat of my arms-’ The nekker’s jaw clamps down on Geralt’s right bicep, between bracer and pauldron and bites deep, rending flesh. Geralt grunts in pain and hears Jaskier stop crying for a split second to inhale sharply in a sudden small gasp of surprise, like he was wont to do if he’d seen a plate about to fall off a table, or caught an unexpected reflection in a mirror, or his lover found a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. Geralt pummels the ogroid in the head with his left hand, putting the force of Axii behind it as well, and the nekker falls insensate to the ground. His boot comes down hard, crushing it’s head and ending it’s life. 

As he turns back to Jaskier, he feels himself losing his grip on the silver sword in his right hand, muscles and nerves damaged by the bite and so switches to a two-handed grip. He can feel the blood dripping down his arm, but he can deal with that later. “That’s all of them.”

“Are you sure? I don’t feel any different. Well, maybe better for a moment when…” The ghost seems to look almost lustfully at the gruesome wound. He trails off when he wrenches his gaze away from Geralt to look at the carnage around the witcher. “There were eight of them. Is that a lot?”

“Not exceptionally.”

Jaskier snorts derisively. “Well, when you’re telling the story could you maybe beef it up a bit? Make it sound a bit more impressive?”

The sound that comes out of the witcher is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Jaskier takes a few steps closer and rests his clawed hands on Geralt’s shoulders. “C’mon. You never did anything nice for me. Not once. Do me this one small favour.”

Geralt nods and fidgets with his grip on the sword he let drop when Jaskier approached.

“Only one thing left to do,” Jaskier whispers. He moves his hands to the sides of Geralt’s face and forces him to meet his gaze. “This will work. I know it will work.” His bright blue eyes seem to be trying to hypnotize Geralt, radiating certainty until the witcher can’t help but hope a little. Can’t help but fall for Jaskier’s magic one more time.

He nods, closes his eyes and steps back. “This will work.” The silver sword flashes and the wraith screams and dissipates quickly into the night air. Again. He stands there for what feels like forever, waiting. But the night stays quiet and eventually the pain in his arm and lethargy in his limbs force him to make a decision between either making himself move or just collapsing where he stands among the quickly cooling entrails and blood.

Geralt stumbles back to Roach and manages a small fire and a few mouthfuls of hardtack before awkwardly stitching up his arm left-handed. He brushes Roach again, not because she needs it, but just because she enjoys it and deserves it, and collapses onto his bedroll, exhausted, but lighter than he’s felt in weeks. He isn’t asleep fifteen minutes before the wail wakes him. It isn’t the loudest Jaskier’s ever been, but the sound resonates in his bones, echoes in the deepest part of him, reminding him that he was, as always, a fool to hope.

Jaskier won’t talk to him that night, refuses to do anything but sit, huddled in on himself, crying. Geralt sleeps fitfully through most of the day, his exhaustion keeping him down, but rises in the afternoon, packs his small camp and starts bleakly back towards civilization. There was only ever one way this was going to end. The only mercy he’ll beg is that Jaskier not be so eager to finish him that he can’t see Roach safely settled first. He tries to broach the topic with Jaskier when he stops to let Roach rest for the night, but the bard still stubbornly refuses to entertain it.

“No.”

“Jaskier, it’s the only way for you to get your vengeance. I’m sorry! It’s my fault you’re dead and now you can’t rest until-”

“No, witcher.” The ghost doesn’t raise his voice, but the tone is unerringly final.

Geralt sighs, but lets it drop for now. Jaskier will kill him eventually. One night, the pain and the hatred will completely subsume the bright man’s soul and he will gladly rip Geralt’s throat out for relief. It’s just a matter of time. Methodically, he turns his attention to his injury, removing the bandage to check on the still aching wound. He doesn’t expect it’s healed enough for the stitches to come out, that will take a few days at least even for him, and it’s puffy and red and painful as he tentatively prods the edges, looking for signs of infection. He’s distracted though by the sound of Jaskier gasping again, louder than before. The ghost is staring openly and hungrily at the gash and something clicks in Geralt’s mind. Jaskier had said that he’d felt different, better even during the fight last night. It made a certain kind of sense that if Jaskier’s pain was tied to Geralt being alive and well, his pleasure would be tied to Geralt’s misery and agony.

Catching himself and still human enough to be embarrassed by it, Jaskier turns his eyes away to stare moodily into the fire, slow tears still running down his cheeks.

Testing his theory, Geralt leans back, putting his weight on the injured arm. His bicep twitches in protest, but he forces it to hold. The tears stop and the small furrow of anguish on Jaskier’s brow eases. Within a few minutes Geralt’s grown accustomed to the minor discomfort though, the mutagens pouring through his veins doing their best to alleviate the pain and keep him in top fighting condition.

Jaskier sighs and says quietly, “It isn’t fair.”

Geralt isn’t sure if he’s talking about his own damnation, the conditions for its disruption, or the fact that his relief is so short lived due to Geralt’s accelerated healing. He’s right on all three counts, but Geralt can only do something about one of them tonight. Wordlessly, he pulls the stitches out.

*

Days, maybe weeks pass and Jaskier still refuses to take his revenge on Geralt. Even ignoring it and allowing it to fester, the bite on his arm eventually heals into a far more gruesome scar than necessary, so Geralt figures he needs to go looking for another monster. As long as he is hunting, he might as well be useful so he turns Roach towards town to see if he can pick up a contract. Jaskier follows along, his ever-present weeping the steady soundtrack to Geralt’s life now, until the first set of buildings come into sight. It’s turning to evening, but the sun has not set, so the bard is nothing more than an indistinct shimmer of fog, but it’s a shimmer of fog planted firmly in front of Roach that causes her to shy away and stop. Her ears fold back aggressively, but Geralt dismounts and holds her head close before she can snap at Jaskier. Not that it would have mattered.

“I don’t want to go into town.”

Geralt looks up from fussing with his horse to meet the disembodied glowing blue gaze. “They might have a contract for me. Something to fight. Something that could-” he pauses and swallows. It feels oddly vulnerable to say it out loud, withering under those eyes. He turns back to Roach and whispers, “Something that could hurt me.”

Jaskier repeats himself, firmer this time. “Don’t go into town.”

“I need supplies if you don’t want me dead, Jaskier. And I need contracts to know where to look for monsters.”

“Didn’t you always tell me the world is full of monsters?” The blue eyes blink and then refuse to meet Geralt’s, as if ashamed of what they are about to say. “You know they don’t want you in town anyway. They chased you out. Without me there to smooth things over, what do you think will happen?”

Roach whinneys softly and nuzzles his hand, giving him the courage to continue. “Look, I won’t stay long, I’ll just-”

With a piercing wail, pure anguish embodied in sound, Jaskier interrupts. When the last echoes have faded away, his normal pitch sounds almost like a whisper. “I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself around other people.”

Geralt flinches at the admission and hangs his head silently. He hadn’t been thinking about how hard it would be on Jaskier at all; he’d only been thinking about himself.

“I’m worried it’ll be too much, that I’ll lash out. It’s already so hard now, Geralt. I don’t want to hurt someone innocent. Please don’t make me any more of a monster than you already have. Please! I don’t think I could bear it if-”

“Okay,” he says impassively, “Okay.” It’s easy to agree. Easy to let Jaskier control whatever is left of his life. If Jaskier is that close to snapping there probably isn’t much of it left. It takes more convincing to turn Roach around though and she stomps her feet and snorts loudly as they head back towards the forest.

He follows a trail of bovine blood to a wyvern in a cave in the foothills of the mountains. The broken collar bone lasts a lot longer than the nekker bite did.

*

Geralt still doesn’t have full extension in his left arm when he runs into the endrega nest, so it isn’t surprising that he found himself overwhelmed and poisoned. Lying on the ground under their weight, he considers just letting the insects eat him - maybe Jaskier would be suitably avenged if he is eaten alive by monsters in return - but Jaskier wails as he feels himself losing consciousness and his body seems to move without him compelling it, finishing the fight and destroying the nest. The bites are shallow, but numerous and sting something fierce causing Jaskier to moan in contentment. The venom is still coursing through his veins as he trudges back to Roach, which is why he misses his grab for her lead as she once again tries to bite the ghost flitting in and out of existence in front of her. She can’t make contact with Jaskier’s intangible form, but that hasn’t stopped her from continuously trying and Geralt seemingly can’t help but try to stop her. He hisses at the twinge of pain from the sharp movement on the still knitting bone, but hears Jaskier sigh softly in something like ease and finishes the movement anyway, belatedly pulling Roach’s head back to him and away from the spectral bard. She hasn’t been happy since before- well, before, and the pressure is starting to wear on her, making her simultaneously and contradictingly both more irritable and affectionate.

Jaskier does not hiss at her, but somehow Geralt can tell he wants to. The hazy horns and claws are both more prominent now, especially in the shadows. “That horse has always hated me.”

It isn’t really true, but Geralt can understand why Jaskier might feel that way, especially given her attitude towards him since- well, since. This Roach had been standoffish when she’d first met Jaskier, unimpressed with the needless noise he happily inflicted on his surroundings, but it was amazing how a few sugar cubes could change a horse’s opinion. She’d actually come around to him surprisingly quickly, even seeming to appreciate the bard’s singing and affectionately lipping his hair or collar while he crooned along on foot beside her. She is four-legged proof that Jaskier could charm the moon from the sky if he put his mind to it and the gentle memory of Jaskier playfully chiding him that even his horse had a better grasp of music theory than he did could make him smile even now.

“You should get rid of her.”

He thought he had passed beyond most emotions, walking somewhere in between fully alive and fully dead, but that still managed to make the bottom drop out of his stomach. His fingers twitch in her lead, instinctively holding it tighter. “What?”

For a second Jaskier’s eyes are like ice and Geralt has the weird sensation of not knowing what is standing beside him, but it passes quickly when he sees the meltwater tears and hears the unmistakable anguish in the bard’s voice. It’s probably just the blood loss that is making him woozy. Well, the blood loss and the poison. “You can’t take care of her like this. I know that’s hard to hear, I know you love her, but I love her too so I have to tell you. You’re hurting her.”

Geralt just holds her head to his chest, panting and panicking and praying to every named and unnamed god that Jaskier stops making so much sense.

“She’s sore, witcher. You’re too much of a burden. She deserves better, Geralt. You know she does. It isn’t fair to keep her and more than that,” Jaskier rests a heavy hand on his sore shoulder, “it isn’t kind.”

He leans into her neck and just breathes the scent of her: horseflesh and nerves and summer hay and musk. Other than Kaer Morhen, a horse called Roach is the closest thing he has to home. It hasn’t always been the same horse, there have been several over the years, each with their own personalities and quirks, but there’s always been a horse waiting for him after a hunt, a horse to talk to on the long rides between jobs, a horse to brush and pamper at the end of the day. She’s the only good thing he has left and he wants to cling to her desperately, like a ship-wrecked man does the wreckage of his boat, but Jaskier is right. He has to let her go before he destroys her too. “I’ll have to-” he squeezes his eyes closed and takes another steadying breath. “I’ll have to go into town to sell her.”

Jaskier nods understandingly. “I know. Of course, I know. It’ll be hard for me, but I’ll keep it together. I know I can. For her.”

Geralt times their arrival around midday, thinking that it will be easier for Jaskier to resist any temptations when he’s at his weakest. He goes directly to the farrier, remembering her as a sturdy woman with large gentle hands and assuming that if anyone in town is in need of a horse she’ll know about it. The dark haired woman clucks her tongue at him in disgust when she sees the state of the tack, but hums appreciatively to herself as she feels along Roach’s withers and legs. “She needs new shoes and is getting on in years, but in pretty good shape for all of that. Why are you selling her again?”

Geralt, standing in the doorway to the stable, doesn’t have the strength or fortitude to explain the situation, so he lies, “I need the money.”

The farrier snorts and crosses her arms, clearly unimpressed with Geralt for the sorry state of his life. Her eyes soften when she turns to Roach though. “She seems gentle.”

“She’s very well trained.” As he says it, he realizes that the farrier is going to buy her and he has already let her go. He’s already touched her for the last time and he hadn’t even recognized it when it was happening, can’t remember it. Did he pat her neck before handing her lead over? Scratch her between her ears? Or did he just unthinkingly drop the line into the woman’s hands like he’s carelessly dropped everything else in his life that deserved to be reverently held? The world starts to feel very far away, and there’s a roaring in his ears, but he’s somehow still talking. “Honestly she’s not above nipping, but especially sweet on sugar cubes.”

“Hey,” the woman speaks to him as if he’s an anxious horse, hands out in front of her where he can easily see them as if he were as easy to soothe as an animal, “you sure you’re looking to sell?”

For a second it feels like a lifeline, but despite his rapidly tunneling vision he can make out sharp blue eyes. He shakes his head to clear it and nods curtly. “I need the money.”

The farrier chews on her lip for a minute. “I’ve got a little girl, wants to learn how to ride the beasts instead of shoe them and all I’ve got for her right now is the draft mare that pulls my dray. Good horse, but her back’s as broad as the wagon and doesn’t like saddles. I’ll give you 100 crowns for the nag and her tack.”

“Roach,” he finds himself correcting her.

She gives him a half smile. “I’ll give you 100 crowns for Roach and her tack.”

It’s ridiculously kind and incomparably cruel for that kindness. Roach’s tack isn’t worth anything; it’s been so neglected it is falling apart and Geralt hasn’t been able to ride her for days since the girth strap snapped. Roach herself, while invaluable to Geralt, can’t be worth more than 50 crowns on a fair market. It’s generous and he’ll know she’s going to a good home and all Geralt has to do is let her go. He’d be a monster not to agree, so he nods, takes the pouch of coins and leaves without another word.

Despite the bright sun, he can hear Jaskier whispering encouragement. “That was the right decision. You make so few of them, so I know it must feel strange, but that was a good thing you did. Anyone else would have freed her so much earlier, but I know you’re not that strong and it was the best you could do. Now we have to get back to the forest quickly because-”

“Witcher?” Geralt almost bowls over the well-dressed dwarf standing in his path in his haste to flee the settlement. “Holy shite, it is you! I almost dinna recognize you. You been roughing it in those mountains this whole time?”

It isn’t Yarpen, but Geralt, once he can get his eyes to focus, recognizes him as one of the other dwarves in the dragon-hunting crew. He doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know if he ever knew his name, but he can hear Jaskier’s wail intensifying and knows he doesn’t have much time to get out of this interaction.

“You look like the gates of hell itself, man! What have you been doing with yerself?”

He doesn’t know how long it’s been actually, time hasn’t been making sense for a while now, but he knows he hasn’t bathed and he’s probably still covered with endrega gore and he’s only been eating every other day or so, so it’s probably a fair assessment. Not that it matters to him in the least right now, with Jaskier writhing beside him. “Fuck off, dwarf.”

Infuriatingly, the smaller humanoid does not take the hint and does not get out of the way. “Look, I know Yarpen said we wasna supposed to give you a cut, but I think that’s a load of bollocks. ‘Specially seeing as how we ended up getting paid for lit’rally just standing there with our cocks out. Lemme at least buy you dinner or a drink.” He couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the witcher. “Mebbe a bath.”

As Geralt spits out, “I don’t need your pity!” he sees Jaskier finally lose control and lunge. He has his silver sword out and slicing through the wraith above the dwarf’s head before he has time to draw a breath to explain himself. With an ear-piercing shriek that apparently only Geralt can hear, Jaskier dissipates into fog again, temporarily banished.

“Fuckin’ hell!” The dwarf finally gets the message and runs for cover and Geralt is allowed to escape the horrid town for the third and what he assumes will be the last time. Jaskier likes it when things happen in threes. LIked it. The thought briefly amuses him and he lets out a slightly hysterical laugh that quickly turns to a sob. He makes it a pitifully short distance into the forest before he collapses, his stamina and fitness not being anywhere near their peaks. He lies there, limp and sobbing, until he hears an achingly familiar cry.

“Ah! You killed me again! It hurts so much all the time, how can that hurt so much more? Why didn’t you leave when I asked? I begged you not to stay in town so long! Oh, gods. What have you made me? Why can’t you do anything for me? Why can’t you be better?” Jaskier is almost mad with pain, raving with hatred. Soon there will be none of him left.

Geralt is no longer actively crying, but the darkened leaves and branches above him are blurry and he can still feel tears rolling down his cheeks, his eyes flooding with every inhaled breath. “Kill me. Just kill me. You can end this. Please.”

He can feel the surprisingly solid body sobbing beside him shudder and it sends shivers down his own spine. “No. No, witcher. Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking most of the monster lore from Witcher 3, with slight modifications for story purposes. For anyone who's interested:
> 
> [Wraith](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Wraith)
> 
> [Penitent](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Penitent)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the warnings from the first chapter still apply here. This is the part where we are still getting darker. Although there are also some other POVs to break it up a bit.

The thing that ultimately convinces Yennefer to seek out Geralt’s assistance (other than that she actually finds herself in need of the services of a witcher and he’s the only one she knows, of course) is the fact that she is still angry. She’s had some time to cool down and reflect, so it isn’t an all-consuming anger, infecting her every waking moment and preventing her from getting any useful work done. Not anymore. But when she thinks back to the inane drivel Geralt had spewed at her that night in her tent before she’d known her affection for him was all so much djinn magic, so much empty air, she still feels her blood boil. That asshole corrupted her heart, undermined her agency and it is completely unforgivable. Nevermind the small voice inside her that annoyingly sounds like a particularly smug Tissaia reminding her that she removed his agency first when she brainwashed him and sent him out to embarrass and harass her enemies. That was completely different. She had at least had the grace to utterly remove his will and controlled him like a puppet before leaving him to be executed by the enraged and humiliated town council for crimes he didn’t even remember committing. She hadn’t made him think he wanted it, deceived him with sickenly sweet lies about being important, promised him she cared and that it was real while all-the-while knowing it was nothing more than a compulsion. It isn’t much of a moral high ground, but it’s hers and she’s going to hold it. So Yennefer seethes and hates and rages and eventually realizes that there is no power pressuring her to forgive him. It seems she could just stay angry forever if she wanted. And the realization makes her just a little bit less certain about how much control the wish actually has over her.

She doesn’t even know what exactly Geralt did wish for. Borch had implied it had something to do with binding their fates together in some way, but she’d been too angry at the time to ask for clarification. Maybe he’d just wished for her body and their frenzied coupling in the partially collapsed manor house afterwards had fulfilled the terms of that request? Although, again, Borch’s phrasing suggested it still held some sway over them. Maybe it made her perpetually physically desire him? That would explain why despite her waking mind’s awareness of his betrayal of her, her dreaming mind keeps unhelpfully providing her, at least twice a week, with thoroughly enjoyable fantasies of the two of them entwined. It does not account, however, for the fact that she’d wanted him from the moment he’d walked into her orgy with the dying bard in tow. Or that half of her reason for having left him to be destroyed after she’d used him to exact her petty vengeance in the first place had been his vulgar suggestion, in tone and temper if not outright words, that sleeping with her would have been a service he rendered in payment for Jaskier’s life as opposed to a pleasurable experience for him. And she supposes the dreams may just reflect her (purely objective, of course) recognition that he was pretty good at the act. At all of the acts, really. He was a man of many talents. Is that the magic then, to turn Geralt into some kind of sex genius when it came to her body? If so she would have to admit that there are certainly worse fates than being doomed to have fantastic sex with a kind, clever and caring partner at her whim.

As soon as she finds herself thinking like that, her first instinct, well honed by years at Aretuza, is to believe that it’s a trap. The djinn is just waiting for her to drop her guard, to think that she isn’t being magically forced to forgive him so that she stops actively trying to resist the compulsion and as soon as she does it will magically force her to forgive him. So she works herself up into a fury all over again. How dare he presume to make a wish about her? He didn’t even know her at the time! And she had just almost got him executed! What sort of degenerate half-wit wishes for the crazy woman who tried to get him killed? The bitch who is, literally, demanding he make any wish at that very moment without giving him any time to consider it or its consequences? And he wants to save her? Why? Just because she saved Jaskier’s life? Because they had some chemistry together? Because he thought he recognized a kindred spirit, a soul certain it’s no longer fully human, powerful beyond most people’s comprehension and desperately alone? Contemplating how assinine the witcher is and how lucky she is to be rid of him keeps her going for another two weeks. But frankly it is exhausting and it’s starting to fray at her composure and so she somehow ends up in a drunken conversation with Triss, arguing whether free will even exists at all or if mortals are just puppets to their brain chemistry and their upbringing, some amorphous higher power and fate. Based on those principles, did Geralt even have a choice when he made the wish or was it always the logical result of a chain of events set in motion when the world began, one domino inevitably and inexorably falling after the other? She feels like they did come to some earth-shattering philosophical revelation regarding the metaphysics of cause-and-effect in the early hours of the morning, but when she wakes later, more hungover than anyone has ever been before in the entirety of existence, all she can remember is Triss’ soft smile as the other sorceress had said, “You don’t need a reason to forgive him, Yennefer, or a justification. That isn’t really how it works. You can forgive him just because you want to. Just because you know people make mistakes. Just because you want to give him a second chance.”

And really, it’s been months now and she does desperately need the fresh spinal fluid from a forktail to make any progress on the research she’d impulsively decided to undertake after she’d caught wind (from Triss) of it stymying the best minds of Aretuza and the stuff she keeps forking over mid-sized fortunes for at alchemists’ shops is always irritatingly congealed by the time it makes it to her lab. She could, obviously, find and kill the thing herself, but she isn’t actually sure how to find one and they are poisonous and can stun people which would likely make it hard to harness chaos and well, isn’t this exactly what witchers were made for? And she can even probably guilt him into doing it for free since he owes her redress for emotional damages.

It could all still be a clever trick of fate, something (i.e. Triss and her own pig-headed need to show up her teachers) inexorably moving her to this project and subsequently guiding her research to require monster viscera with a frustratingly short shelf-life, thereby cleverly pulling witcher and witch back together again, but even she has to admit at this point that it’s more than likely just random chance. Fuck it. If fate works that subtly, it deserves the damn win. Besides, she still feels more like slapping Geralt than kissing him. While it’s a small but significant step up from wanting to eviscerate him like she had wanted to in the days after she stormed off that accursed mountain, she can honestly say she believes the reduction in rage has more to do with the passage of time and some hard introspection than any air spirit twanging at her heartstrings. She’s reasonably confident that whatever spell may or may not be working between them at least hasn’t taken away her agency in that sense.

Of course whatever spell is working between them makes it a piece of cake to locate Geralt. As corny as it sounds, she feels as if she could close her eyes anywhere in creation and follow the pull of her soul toward its mate. Which makes her a little angry all over again. Maybe she will eviscerate him after all just to prove she can and throw a massive middle finger at everything and everyone that thinks they can control her. Once she’s got her fresh forktail brain juice of course.

Promising herself that she will keep this interaction strictly business, she opens a portal effortlessly and steps through from her chambers into a surprisingly shadowed wood, given that it’s midday. The canopy of leaves doesn’t seem that dense, but it’s still dark as night beneath it. She does not immediately see the witcher, but trusts her sense that he’s nearby. The forest is eerily quiet, no birdsong or rustling of small creatures, so she keeps her own voice soft, suddenly concerned she has dropped in on him in the midst of a monster hunt. “Geralt?”

“Yen?” With a start, she turns towards the sound. He’s only a few metres away, but still almost invisible in the dim light. The only thing she can clearly make out is the look of unadulterated hope in his eyes. It is almost enough to break her resolve. Almost. But before she can even open her mouth to respond, he turns his head sharply and flinches, as if reacting to something he heard in the darkness behind him. When he turns back to her, his eyes are empty. “What are you doing here, Yen?”

His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t been using it much lately. This isn’t how she expected this interaction to proceed. She expected him to be happy, or maybe even angry at her in return for leaving without giving him a chance to explain himself or to be consumed with regret and fall at her feet begging for forgiveness. She was not expecting… whatever this is. Unsettled, she covers it with a raised eyebrow and disinterested mask. “I could ask you the same question.” Now that her eyes have adjusted somewhat she can tell that he looks, well, awful. In her experiences with him his appearance is frequently unkempt and dirty but this is really taking it to a new level. And she isn’t entirely sure, but she thinks he looks distinctly thinner than normal. Although his armour might just be hanging off of him like that because it is in such poor repair. She prompts the conversation forward when it becomes apparent that Geralt is not going to answer. “Witcher work?” If it is, whatever he’s fighting is kicking his ass.

“Something like that.” He won’t meet her eyes anymore, just stares at a point on the ground about halfway between them, hands limp at his sides. “It’s dangerous. You should go.” Despite the urgency of the content of his words, there is no urgency in the tone.

She makes a snap decision. He can’t very well help her if he’s fumbling around in the dark here for something and it’s not like she has anything else to do until she can get her hands on the components she needs. This is still just business, not emotional at all. If she feels like she can’t bear to see him like this it’s because he’s not useful to her like this, nothing else. “Well, tell me what you’re after and what we need to do to kill it so we can wrap this up quickly. I need you to-”

“You don’t need me.”

She hates being interrupted and she hates being contradicted. Geralt knows this, so she has to assume he is deliberately antagonizing her. Bold move for a man already on thin ice. She grits her teeth and tries not to lose her temper. “I need a witcher.”

“Find another one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She manages to stop herself before thoughtlessly adding, ‘You’re my witcher.’ She tries to ignore the bubbly, effervescent feeling that accompanies thinking of Geralt as hers, but it’s hard to focus on resisting the obvious djinn compulsion when something here feels so wrong. Of all of the ways she had imagined this going, she never would have guessed that Geralt would outright refuse her. The man was normally incapable of withholding his aide from anyone not actively committing atrocities. Stubbornly, she puts her hands on her hips. “Fine. If you want to traipse around this damned woods after whatever beast it is you’re hunting by yourself, be my guest. I’ll just wait at your camp for you to either finish it or come to your damn senses and agree to my request.”

She turns and makes like she’s about to storm off, but isn’t actually sure how she would go about finding his camp, so is secretly relieved when he responds, “No camp.”

“Tavern then.” She smirks a little with the realization that a tavern strongly implies the presence of Jaskier; Geralt rarely bothers paying for luxury when camping is a viable option. The bard on the other hand would never sleep on the ground when a bed was available. And if Jaskier has been whispering venomous injunctions against her in the witcher’s ear it might explain Geralt’s current hostility. She did give the aggravating man a clear opening in their ongoing battle for Geralt’s limited affections when she effectively removed herself from play. However, she’s sure if she can corner Jaskier with a drink, she can weasel the story of why Geralt’s mucking about in this haunted place looking like death warmed over out of him. Jaskier is as capable of keeping his mouth closed as a fish is at flying. Furthermore, he is, to put it bluntly, utterly useless in a fight and so is probably fretting away unable to do anything to help Geralt despite desperately wanting him to be okay. He might think of her as the devil, but she has no doubt he’d make a deal with the devil to save his witcher. She’ll even offer to magic him along on the forktail quest too, if Geralt permits; it’s not like her portal spell has a weight limit. Honestly, she might insist. The witcher looks like he desperately needs a friend right now, dangers of a forktail hunt be damned. “You owe me witcher, so just tell me wherever you’ve stabled your horse and your singer and we’ll-”

“Jaskier is dead.”

“What?” The news hits her a lot harder than she would have thought it would, hits hard and settles coldly and heavily in the pit of her stomach. She finds herself gaping and struggling for words. “Jaskier? When? How?”

“Nekkers. Ate him.”

Her brow wrinkles in disgust at the callous description. The bard had been far from her favourite person, but he’d meant so much to Geralt. He’d told her once he would have done anything to save Jaskier so hearing him bluntly state an unspeakably horrendous end to the bright man was discomfiting as much for the emotional dissonance as it was for the gruesome image it conjured. “What?”

“Nekkers. A-”

She cuts him off with a gesture and a revolted noise. “Don’t! I heard you the first time. But how did it- How can you just-” She covers her face with her hands, momentarily overwhelmed. “What’s wrong with you! He was your-”

“Here.” Geralt had closed the distance between them while she was reeling and now is handing her a dagger. “Eskel gave it to me. You can use it to find him. He’s a Wolf witcher too. Trained with me. Tell him I said to help you, free of charge. He’ll do it.”

Yennefer’s fingers numbly close around the proffered weapon while she still fumbles for something to say. She isn’t sure exactly when she lost complete control of this situation or if she even had any in the first place. “But are you okay? That must have been- What are you-”

“I’m on a hunt. Working. Like I said, dangerous.” Geralt is already walking back into the shadows. He doesn’t turn around, but he does stop for a moment. “A rare type of wraith. A penitent. I can’t leave ‘til I- I can’t leave ‘til he-” As lost for words as she is, Yennefer waits for him to continue. She can see his shoulders and back are tense, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I can’t leave ‘til it’s over.”

“Geralt!” He doesn’t turn around. “Let me help you!” It slips out before she can stop it. She reminds herself it’s probably djinn magic, but for a second she doesn’t care.

He finally looks back at her and there’s a weight to his gaze that is unbearable. “Do you know anything about wraiths?”

“Well, no. Not so much. Not exactly. I mean, I know some uses for specter dust. This is some kind of specialized wraith you said? I’m sure I could-” She doesn’t blabber. She has never once in her life blabbered. She has no idea why she’s doing it now. Or how to stop.

“Goodbye Yennefer.”

He leaves her standing in the brightening forest, dumbstruck. There was something in his eyes or his bearing, something that feels painfully familiar and makes her ache to go after him. But of course that is just the djinn. Clearly the spell is based on proximity and so she would be wise to stay away from him in the future. Wise to just take the dagger and find this Eskel fellow. Wise to leave Geralt to his hunt and his wraith and his incomprehensible grief. And since Yennefer is nothing if not wise, that is what she does, no matter what invectives her heart might be screaming at her.

*

After she’s gone, Geralt finds that Yennefer’s visit has left him wound up in an indescribable way. She’s always been able to capture his interest, make him feel aroused or angry or affectionate or addlepated, but this isn’t any of those; it doesn’t even feel focused on her at all. It’s just something boiling over inside of him, the pressure incrementally increasing with no relief in sight. It’s uncomfortable, but also surprising since a lot of the time lately he’s felt like he was already effectively dead: just going through the motions as he waited for Jaskier to fully break. Numb. He’s not sure how long it’s been going on, but there have been some days where he has just laid in his bedroll from dawn to dusk listening to Jaskier weeping and unable to see the point of getting up. So far something has always managed to convince him to stir, a physical need that can’t be ignored or Jaskier begging him to find something to fight or, on this one particular occasion, Yennefer magically appearing out of nowhere, but he was starting to accept and even appreciate that this is how it will end for him: he will lay down one night and just never get back up again. It is a nice thought, just letting go, closing his eyes, and resting forever. He’s agitated now though and honestly he should have known that nothing for him would ever be peaceful. He stomps through the dark forest, away from the meagre camp Yennefer had not even noticed, without a care for the noise he’s making. He’s killed everything worth killing in this area anyway. Movement helps mitigate his mood, but not enough. He still feels like he has to do something. Something to release the tension. Something to make things quiet again.

Jaskier follows on his heels, howling. The witcher isn’t sure if his mood is rubbing off on the ghost or if Yennefer somehow managed to work up Jaskier as well, but he’s also obviously feeling it. And, as always for the loquacious bard, energy translates to ranting. Geralt knows he deserves it and knows it’s awful of him to think, but sometimes he prefers it when Jaskier just screams. “I told you she wasn’t here because she cared about you, but you couldn’t help yourself, could you? Couldn’t help trying to reach out and drag her down. One look at that bitch and you think, what? That she can save you? That you are worth saving? I am the only one who ever even tried to help you! Only one who cared even a little! I wrote everything I could to try and rescue your well-deserved reputation and look at what it got me! Look at what I am now! Do you want that for her? If you actually loved her, if you were actually capable of love, you’d stay as far away from her as possible. As far from all of them as- ” Jaskier breaks off with a gasp and a low moan and stops to wrap his arms around himself as he does whenever the pain gets close to being too much for him. Maybe this will finally be the time he does snap and then this whole ordeal can just be over. 

Geralt stops as well and turns to watch the wraith. He’s looking far from human these days, long shadowy claws and horns distinctly prominent, eyes glowing like stars in the dark, but Geralt can still make out the vestiges of his cheery red outfit and when he’s not like this, not maddened by the pain, not driven to say aloud what his kindness would have kept him from uttering while alive, sometimes he sounds so gentle. So familiar. So heart-breakingly like Jaskier.

Shuddering, the penitent tries to pull himself under control. He meets Geralt’s eyes, watery glowing blue considerably softer than they were a moment ago. “Please… please… I can’t…”

Geralt spins and drives his left fist into the trunk of the nearest tree as hard as he can. The bark cracks and he can feel that he’s split the skin on his knuckles, but he pulls back his fist and hits it again. Twice. He can hear Jaskier’s soothed sigh behind him as he impartially looks over the damage to his hand. Nothing feels or looks broken, although his knuckles are bleeding and already starting to swell. Despite the pain, he can’t help but notice it feels good. Good to be doing something. Good to have a focus for the chaos swirling inside him. Good to feel a release. Surprisingly good. And nothing has felt good in a long time.

“It was clever, giving Yennefer the knife, sending her to Eskel. Kind even. You can be kind when you really try.” Jaskier continues softly, taking Geralt’s bruised hand in his and rubbing a sharp thumb over the scratches, keeping them open. “Eskel will definitely help her. He’ll make sure she’s okay so you don’t have to think about it anymore at all. I’m sure they’ll get on like a house on fire. I mean if anyone can handle Yennefer, soothe her sore soul, it’s someone as patient as Eskel. It was never something you would have been able to do.”

Geralt wrinkles his brow, agitation building again. He can’t remember telling Jaskier about Eskel, although he must have. They travelled together for decades, surely he must have mentioned his brothers at least once and Jaskier always asks so many questions, wanting the how, what, why, who, where and when of everything. Obviously the bard must have pried tales of Kaer Morhen out of him, over some smokey campfire or tankard of ale or game of cards, but he can’t picture it. Everything seems so hard to remember now; it’s hard to imagine anything outside of trees and shadows and bright blue eyes. He rips his hand from Jaskier’s grasp and seriously contemplates hitting the tree again. Hitting it until his fist is nothing but so much meat and fractured bone. He would remember that. It would be impossible to forget. And it would help Jaskier. And he just knows it would feel so- He would feel so much relief and it would seem so- It would be right and the raging storm inside him would quiet and consequences be damned it would just be so-

“Good? Mmm.” Jaskier sounds almost drowsy or drunk. “We’re close, I’m close. I can’t hold on forever, Geralt, as much as I would like to. But I think it’s still too soon for something that drastic. I think we have more time.”

Geralt scoffs and clenches his fist. He hadn’t even been aware he was talking aloud. Jaskier is slowly losing his humanity and Geralt is slowly losing his mind. He can’t destroy his hand but he needs to do something soon or he’ll just-

The dagger he finds in his right hand makes sense. He’s not sure if he grabbed it himself or if Jaskier handed it to him or if the universe just spontaneously created it in his grasp to satisfy his desperation, but it feels so right and it just makes so much sense to draw the point of it in a series of steady straight lines from wrist to elbow on his left forearm. The release that comes with the flowing blood is enough to knock him off his feet and he collapses to his knees on the forest floor as he feels himself sinking back into familiar numbness. Distantly he realizes that he’s learned to cry like Jaskier, tears just flowing uninterrupted as they form, only the smallest, quietest hitches to his breath, barely recognizable as sobs.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just kill me?” Geralt thinks it sounds like his voice, but it feels like someone else is speaking.

“Oh, my treat, I’m sure.”

*

As the witch finally pops through her portal with her jar of forktail spinal fluid back to wherever she came from, it feels like a weight is lifted from Eskel’s shoulders and he can relax for the first time in days. As much as he might usually lament the lonely nature of witcher work, this had been a conclusive study on how hunting with someone standing over your shoulder offering constant commentary and criticism on the entire procedure was so much worse than solitude. Yennefer is clever and quick, but demanding and unrelenting and generally just… a lot. He’d been forced to retreat further and further into his polite shell than he had in awhile in order to keep from throttling her at times and he shudders to think what will happen if, or more likely when, she meets Lambert. While the reason a person might want to sleep with the violet-eyed sorceress is as plain as the scars on his face, the reason someone would fall in love with her is somewhat more obscure. Which, he thinks with a sardonic smirk as he starts to dismantle the rest of the monster for parts to sell, is cruel and not even remotely true, but will be a lot of fun to tease Geralt about this winter. If Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen this winter. Like all wild things, the White Wolf usually prefers to mourn unwitnessed and scurry to ground rather than show his soft underbelly, even to his family. He’d stayed away for two years after Blaviken and this, this has got to be at least as hard on him as that. Probably harder.

His mood sours as he thinks of the reason Yennefer had come to him in the first place. Eskel has unfortunately never had the chance to meet Geralt’s bardic barker (Geralt had obstinately refused to invite him to the keep for the winter despite much needling from Eskel and Lambert), but he’d been upset on his brother’s behalf to hear of his passing. He knew that as tragic as it was, it wasn’t terribly surprising the poor man had met a violent end, the Path was a hard and unforgiving place for a witcher, let alone a human, but Geralt was undoubtedly suffering for it and blaming himself. In typical Geralt manner however he’d reacted by throwing himself into his work. If he couldn’t save the one he wanted to save, he’d at least save everyone else. As if the burden for all the monsters in the world reseted solely on his shoulders. _Self-important ass,_ he thinks fondly.

Penitents were always a hard hunt as well, physically, intellectually and emotionally. Figuring out what exactly constituted revenge for them was inevitably a complex mess since everyone involved invariably lied to cover their own asses and ghosts have inconsistent to incomprehensible morals at best. You were lucky if it was just some task that needed completing, from anything as simple as finishing some work left undone to as complicated as hunting down a family heirloom and getting a drop of blood from every hand that had held it since it was stolen. It was worse when they wanted someone to die, and unfortunately they almost always did. Ghosts, like the humans they once were, have a tendency to be disturbingly bloodthirsty. You could always try to reason with them to a different method of vengeance, but the damned things were basically invulnerable until satisfied so try how you might sometimes heads just had to roll. Eskel personally found that, despite his teachers’ many lectures on the topic, it didn’t actually help him at all to think that a penitent’s chosen victim likely deserved it, that the very magic that created the monster effectively ensured it. A curse that strong could only be cast by a truly craven or cruel action: a conscious decision to cause someone else harm. But regardless, people were people and they were supposed to save them. Even if he didn’t feel it was morally questionable at best to sacrifice a living soul to a ghost’s fury, it still felt like a professional failure to Eskel to just let the wraith rampage unimpeded. Their existence was agony, he knew that, but the balm for that madness couldn’t be a mindless massacre. You couldn’t let them just roll in with the fog in the evening and work their way through the local populace every night until they happened to chance upon the cause of their damnation. Their long talons, skeletal frames, glowing eyes and bare grinning skulls would be the last thing a lot of innocents would see before the guilty were called to account. Put it all together and a penitent hunt was the physical challenge of keeping the thing incorporeal as much as possible with your silver sword while at the same time trying to keep your wits about you enough to pry the story of what actually happened out of the typically uncooperative public and this all had to be accomplished under the looming emotional bombshell that you were likely going to have to let someone else die anyway despite your best efforts. Geralt, who would never willingly choose even a small evil, undoubtedly has his hands full with this hunt, which explained why he hadn’t jumped to assist Yennefer on her quest.

When he’d offered that explanation to the obviously insulted sorceress after she’d cornered him eight days ago in a tavern and told him why she was there, her eyes had warmed considerably and her jaw had unclenched, although Eskel was clever enough to not let on that he’d caught her caring. Worried for Geralt, he’d carefully framed the question of them returning immediately to assist with the penitent hunt as something he wanted and not presumed her feelings on the matter, but Yennefer had scoffed. “Geralt has made it very clear that he doesn’t need any help.”

Eskel had scoffed in return. Surely she knew him better than that. “Geralt has made it very clear that he doesn’t want any help. He doesn’t fucking know what he needs most of the time.”

She had bit her lip in response and her frustration with herself told Eskel that the indecision she had felt was uncharacteristic for the powerful woman. Finally, she had just stood and brushed passed him, obviously expecting him to follow her. “I need forktail spinal fluid. You can do whatever you would like after that.”

Now, forktail dead and witch appeased, Eskel is free to check up on his brother if he wants to. And he does want to. He wants to make sure the penitent hunt was wrapped up neatly and console him on the loss of his friend and remind him that as strong as he is he doesn’t always have to do things on his own. But from everything Yennefer had let slip during their time together, Geralt seemed to want to be alone. Some people craved companionship in their grief, some solitude. He would hate to show up and just make things worse or harder for Geralt, to force a social interaction when it wasn’t welcome. It would be respectful to honour Geralt’s wishes despite whatever misgivings he might have. Respectful to assume that his brother knew what he was doing. Respectful to wait for him to ask for help if he needed it. And Eskel is nothing if not respectful.

*

It’s getting colder. It’s always dark in the forest now so Geralt can’t anticipate the changing of the seasons by the lengthening of the nights, but he can feel the drop in temperature and see his breath in the mornings and evenings. Soon the leaves will start turning colour and falling from the trees. Normally that would be his signal to start the long trek back to Kaer Morhen; if he waits too long to try the trip there is always the chance that the pass will be snowed shut by the time he arrives and he’ll be locked out of his home for the snowy season. Without a mount, Geralt might not make it back in time even if he leaves now. Not that he’s going to leave now. Not that he can leave now, even if he wanted to. He’s too weak, wasting away as the bard’s wronged spirit grows darker and fatter. And even if he were strong enough to travel, he could never bring Jaskier to the Wolves’ keep. Not like this. Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert would not understand the situation. They’d just see a monster, not Jaskier and they’d never accept what Geralt has chosen to do for him. For both of them. For all of them. For the soul he’d never been able to admit he loved, even in the broken imperfect way he was able to express the emotion at all, for the soul he’d tried to love and damaged with his broken imperfect efforts at it and for his soul, broken and imperfect and unable to go on any longer like this. And they would force him to. He doesn’t know of any way to kill a penitent except through allowing it to take it’s revenge, but he knows they could trap Jaskier. Lock him away forever in some pit of the fallen castle, freeing Geralt to continue wandering his Path unimpeded. Alone. He can almost hear their arguments, Vesemir bloviating on how it is the most expedient solution to the problem as it stands and Lambert snarking that it’s just another ghost and he doesn’t give a fuck and Eskel pleading with sad eyes that Geralt accept this fate and keep going. The ache in his heart at the thought of Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert safe and warm at Kaer Morhen is different from the ache in his arm where he’s been cutting himself, but both pains seem to please the penitent.

He sits, crying as quietly as he can, watching Geralt’s face as he stares at the underside of the soon to be dead leaves above him. “You aren’t thinking of going to Kaer Morhen for the winter, are you?”

“No. Of course not.” He almost smiles though. He knows that Jaskier has become unreasonably good at reading his facial expressions over the years, but it still surprises him to be known like that. Yennefer was always preternaturally good at reading him as well, or rather supernaturally good, since it was likely aided by her ability to skim the surface thoughts of others. He thinks of them together a lot these days, the one invariably melting into the other. He’d always thought them diametrically opposed, and they’d certainly acted it, but the further he gets away from them the more similar they appear. Like two sides of a coin that appear different and share nothing in common except literally everything they are made of. And although he had approached his relationships with each of them from opposite vantages, they seemed to somehow have ended up in the same spot. His love for Yen was like a flower he’d been suddenly given the moment they’d met, fully formed and delicate, and he’d had to haphazardly construct a garden suitable for it. With Jaskier, the ground had been tilled and turned, fertilized and watered and slowly, inexorably, a flower had grown. Vastly different processes, but the result was identical. And then he’d uprooted the flowers, burned both gardens to the ground and salted the earth. Witchers weren’t farmers, what did he know about making things grow?

As if the thought of farmers reminded it, his stomach growls and his abdominal muscles contract painfully around the emptiness. Jaskier slips closer, running taloned fingers almost tenderly down his front. “You should check your traps, see if you’ve caught anything.”

Geralt doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to move, doesn’t care enough to feed himself, but if it's what Jaskier still wants he’ll press on. He feels lightheaded as he drags himself to his feet, but doesn’t pass out this time. The first three traps are empty, but the fourth holds a dead rabbit. Seemingly a few days dead, which makes him wonder briefly about when he last ate, but he drops the train of thought as ultimately inconsequential. He skins the thing and starts to gather branches for a fire when he hears Jaskier hiss in discomfort. Numbly he turns to the ghost.

Jaskier's bright eyes are glowing fiercely, but the rest of his body language reads as uncomfortable. “You don’t have to do that, do you?”

He is confused; checking the traps had been Jaskier’s idea in the first place. “Eat?” He expects that if he still cared about that sort of thing and Jaskier is ready to kill him, he’d prefer the wraith just rip his throat out or something instead of ask him to stop eating entirely. As he is though he just finds himself waiting to see what the ghost wants. The promise of peace would be worth the pain of a slow death from starvation.

Jaskier fidgets and to Geralt’s dull senses it almost seems more like a performance than a nervous tic. Almost more like glee than embarrassment. “Cook it.”

“It’s been-” he holds up the carcass as evidence, “I don’t know how long it’s been out here.”

“It’s been cold out mostly and even if it is rotten, you won’t get sick, will you? That’s the point of all your mutations, isn’t it? To make you able to survive like this, like an animal? And it’s not like you’ve never eaten raw meat before.” Jaskier wrinkles his nose in disgust, but the look quickly merges into one of sympathy. Even now he’s trying to spare Geralt’s feelings. “It’s not like you’re not eating it alive. Not this time.”

He lets out a single quiet sob and sinks to sit on the ground. It had been only his fourth or fifth summer on the Path when he’d been arrested in Vattweir. Apparently people had been disappearing and instead of hiring him the local constabulary figured he looked like a suspicious candidate. Knowing he was innocent, and unforgivably young, Geralt had gone along peacefully, assuming it would all be sorted out quickly. It was not sorted out quickly. It had been two weeks with no food before he’d caught the first rat in his teeth. He had never told the story to anyone, not even Eskel, but he knew the guards had seen him. And he knows how humans love to spread stories about monsters and how Jaskier was always desperate for witcher lore so he shouldn’t be surprised that he knows this. 

Jaskier sits beside him and strokes the bandage on his left arm, pressing gently but noticeably into the myriad cuts beneath. The pain is a useful focus and Jaskier continues apologetically. “It’s the fire. Every time I see it it reminds me of when you burned me. It was… It was awful, Geralt. Have you ever been burned? Can you imagine that spreading across your whole body? And even death can’t free you from the pain? It just keeps going and I can’t-”

He stops him by placing his good hand on Jaskier’s cheek and gently stroking his thumb over his lips, interfering with the words. He doesn’t have to explain himself to Geralt. He eats the rabbit raw while Jaskier watches, ashamed of what he is, but not hiding from the ghost. As he chokes down the meat he recognizes that he should probably be more concerned about this development: he has no warm clothing, no tent, no dried food supplies left and now no fire - nothing that will get him through a winter in the woods. Not that he expects to see the spring. Except he hadn’t really expected to see the fall either to be honest. He knows it’s getting so hard for Jaskier now, but the penitent still won’t do what he needs to do to free himself. The reality of the situation finally settles in his stomach like cold rabbit. Of course he can’t. Even now, Jaskier is too good of a person, incorruptible still after all this time. He’s always been a man of words and stories, never action. But Geralt knows action. Prefers action. Maybe if Jaskier can’t bring himself to do what needs to be done to end this, it’s time for Geralt to man up and handle it himself. To stop selfishly waiting for Jaskier to put him out of his misery and to take responsibility. Geralt needs to die and it’s with an almost comforting certainty that he remembers that if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt is cold. He’s been cold for so long he feels like he can’t remember what warmth feels like. He’s cold and he’s hungry and he’s hurt and despite Jaskier’s pleading he knows this is it. This is as far as he can go. He needs to end it and the surest way he can think of is a long drop. Luckily he never got that far from the mountain. So he goes up.

*

Yennefer is walking from the library to the manor house where she’s rented the second floor for the season, coat collar turned up against the gently falling snow, when she hears the song and it momentarily stops her in her tracks. It’s coming from the bustling tavern beside her, windows open even in the cold weather to mitigate the combined body heat of the crowd in the main room. It’s one of Jaskier’s, something about a princess who is also the moon and the man who hopelessly falls in love with her despite her status as a celestial body. She’d have eaten his ridiculous feathered cap before she would have ever told the bard, but it was one of her favourites. The song sounded so silly, both the tune and the concept, and it was so irresistibly singable, as evidenced by the fact she couldn’t even hear whoever was performing it over the crowd droning on, but if you actually listened to the words Jaskier had played the concept completely, heart-breakingly straight. It was a tragedy, but only if you were paying attention, and the brilliance of it was that all the people who didn’t get it, all the people riotously and joyously belting out the words without a single thought in their heads, made the tragedy all that much more poignant. The audience themselves were the braying mortals mocking the impossible lovers, looking at the surface of things instead of the spirit, thinking that it was funny that two beings could feel that strongly and be so thoroughly fucked by fate. And she would have thought that the whole thing was an accident, her own personal interpretation giving it a depth it didn’t deserve, if not for the fact that when he first saw her sitting solemnly through his performance of it Jaskier had dropped character for a split second and winked at her with a sad smile. And she knew that he knew exactly what he was doing. And for a moment she felt the whole thing had been orchestrated just for her benefit, his alleged patrons merely puppets he was playing for the edification of the only other person in the room clever enough to catch the story he was really telling. Leaning now against the outside of the building, holding herself apart from the crowd, but still feeling the warm air and glow from the tavern, Yennefer realizes that that had been a moment where things could have turned, where she could have made a different decision from the one she had made (which had been to retreat upstairs and loudly ride Geralt to within an inch of his life, hoping the sound would ruin Jaskier’s evening) and put them all on a different path than where they ended up. She hates to admit it, hates to admit that she might have been wrong, but apparently she has regrets.

She hadn’t been sad per se to hear of Jaskier’s death (or at least she was not admitting to herself that she had been sad to hear of his death), but she couldn’t deny feeling the lack of him. A hole in the world. She’d told herself it was just because it was so hard these days to find a good partner for witty banter - not that Jaskier always gave as good as he got, but he did always show up and put in a good effort. But now she couldn’t help thinking that maybe it wasn’t so much a hole in the world as a hole in the tapestry of her future. The sudden disappearance of a possibility she’d been stubbornly shying away from, while all the while secretly entertaining, and never really expected to have wrenched from her before she could grasp it. It’s like insects under her skin, realizing that something was taken away from her, especially something she hadn’t yet decided if she wanted or not.

And since apparently right here, right now in this damned street in the snow is where Yennefer has decided to be honest with herself, she hates what losing Jaskier has done to Geralt. Not just because it’s hurt him now, not just because it hurt her to see him suffering in the woods, but because of what his absence has stolen from Geralt’s future. She knows, she’s learned: people are different when they are loved. Better. And it’s impossible to love (yes, as long as she’s being honest with herself, love) Geralt without seeing the effect of Jaskier’s love in him. Hell, whatever wish Geralt had made to bind them together smacked so much of the bard’s influence that she honestly should have yelled at him on the mountain top as well. They were immortal creatures, witcher and witch, and far too old for fairy stories. But then Jaskier pranced in singing so earnestly of heroes and honour and justice and love and somehow you find yourself… not believing in it, she’s not a child anymore, but wanting to believe in it. They are lies, pretty lies and all the more dangerous because of that. She knows that Geralt wanted to be a hero (and as sappy as it is, it’s one of the reasons she fell in love with him), but she also knows that he wouldn’t be alive today if he thought that were actually possible. A witcher that naive wouldn’t have lasted a hundred years on the Path. But sometimes when Jaskier had been singing, she could see Geralt existing for just a second in that world where he is the shining knight, righting the wrongs of the world and ferreting out injustice, instead of the despised mutant barely tolerated for his use in slaughtering monsters. And it’s very hard to hate Jaskier for that. Hard to remember where all the vitriol between them came from.

Then the bard inside, obviously a fan of Jaskier’s, strums the opening chords to ‘Her Sweet Kiss’ and it’s suddenly very easy to remember. Yennefer crosses her arms across her chest, closes her eyes and knocks her head against the wall behind her once in frustration. Whoever it is seems to be doing a strictly instrumental version, maybe just riffing on it as filler as they decide what to play next, but she knows the words. She has heard it a few times this past autumn and recognized it as the piece he was composing on the way up that fateful mountain. He must have finished it on the way down. She wonders how many times he actually got to sing it before he passed and realizes that it somehow hurts more to know that the last thing he ever wrote was about how much he hated her. It always hurt worse when Jaskier called her evil. Partially because he was human, and so there was a little bit of assuming that he speaks for all humanity, but also because he was a bard, a master of stories. If anyone should know evil, it’s him. And she's just tired of being jealous that he was there first or more often. That falling in love was so fucking easy for him and that he could look lovingly at Geralt without any doubt in his eyes. It all seems so stupid now, trying to clamber over each other to sit highest in Geralt’s esteem - as if that were a prize to be won. Which is not to say that it isn’t a prize, because Geralt’s affections are something of great value, just that the concept that they could be won by putting someone else down, that it was something that lessened when shared with another, even that it was something to be won from Geralt over Jaskier, as opposed to something Geralt had the right to give to whoever he pleased, well, it didn’t sit right. Not now. 

Yennefer has to concede that she has maybe never been the best at remembering that other people also deserve autonomy. She’s spent so much of her life subject to other people’s whims, screaming just to be heard and desperately clinging to anything she has lest it be taken from her, that she hadn’t known what to do with them. She is woefully under-rehearsed when it comes to social interactions where no one else is screaming back, when someone is trying to treat her gently, even if they are floundering horrendously in their attempt. She wants to throw up her defenses, to say it isn’t her fault, that she is just a product of what she was made to be, but since this seems to be a night for honesty she decides instead to just accept it for what it is and forgive herself. Which is when she knows she’s also forgiven Geralt. Or she will, when he apologizes to her. Her anger is like a bright weed in a garden, roots twisted deep in the earth of knowing of him. Only able to thrive because she’s loved him in the first place. And as anyone who's ever looked at a garden can tell you, there's a lot more soil than flower, now matter how flashy it might be. And like all living things one day it will die, scorched in the sun of his smile, and the earth will remain, ready to grow something new.

Neither of them are good at this, neither of them were made for this, so it will probably all go tits up again and again, but that’s Jaskier’s story of the moon falling in love isn’t it? As hopeless as it was, it was still worth the effort. And maybe it isn’t all as hopeless as that. If Jaskier’s love could help a mutant monster hunter see he was a knight, maybe Geralt’s could help the moon turn herself back into a maiden. She carefully doesn’t bother thinking about how she would have possibly changed herself if Jaskier had loved her, or what it would have felt like to see her influence change him in return, since the point is moot. Those cards are off the table forever and all that remains now is the music he left behind on the tongues and fingers of other artists. She smiles. He’d have liked to be remembered like that.

As the final notes of Jaskier’s last eloquent ‘fuck you’ to her fade away, she groans to hear the introduction to another of his love songs. No. She’s had enough of that for tonight. There is only so much soul-searching a person can reasonably be expected to do in an evening. She’ll work out tomorrow how to arrange a reconciliation with her witcher in the spring, given that he’s likely already holed himself away to hibernate for the winter, and for now she’ll return to her rooms alone, make herself a late dinner and turn in. But as she goes to do just that, a sudden impulse strikes her. There is food and company and entertainment just a thin wall away. Fuck it. It’s cold here and she’s going inside. She’ll get this imitator to sing Jaskier’s witcher songs. She wants to hear them and since this cretin seems to know the rest of his repertoire he can undoubtedly knock a few of them out. She slams the door open to get the attention of the room and make her request, but she’s struck mute when the singer turns to face her. For what she will later insist is the first, last and only time in her long existence, Yennefer of Vengerberg actually faints dead away.

*

Jaskier flits around Geralt in the shadows, cold blue eyes glowing, long horns bobbing as he moves, unnaturally long arms and fiendishly long claws swinging at his sides. “I know you’re weak, witcher, but surely not so weak. I’ve held on so long for you, surely you can hang on a little longer for me. You owe me. You owe me this and so much more. Don’t do this yet. Just come to me and we’ll think of another way to make me feel better. You still have the dagger, don’t forget. It feels wonderful, doesn’t it? To bleed like that? Like you’re supposed to. Come down.”

He doesn’t bother responding. He’s tried to explain to Jaskier how he will be freed by Geralt’s death, how his vengeance will be complete and his spirit will be allowed to pass on to whatever comes next. The ghost doesn’t want to listen. Jaskier doesn’t want to listen. He can’t help but think it’s very much like the bard to try to outright reject an uncomfortable reality. He doesn’t have anything left to say, so he climbs silently accompanied by a constant litany from the penitent. It almost feels comforting, Jaskier talking and him only half-listening as he walks to kill a monster.

*

“What the fuck do you mean he probably isn’t coming this winter?”

“Something happened this summer. He lost someone.” Eskel hadn't even managed to get his coat off in the great hall of Kaer Morhen before the rapid-fire questions from the younger wolf had started. The utter relief on Lambert’s face when Eskel had materialized (and to a lesser extent Vesemir’s - they’d both clearly been dealing with the growing dread they were going to be locked in together for months, just the two of them and wouldn’t that have been something) had quickly turned to questions of whether Geralt was going to appear to round out the party. Eskel himself had been pushing it close, the trek up the mountain to the ancient keep had been dangerously near impassable on his ascent, so Lambert’s concern about Geralt’s arrival was not unfounded. Only Eskel knew that it was unlikely the White Wolf had even tried. He throws his coat over a chair near the fire and accepts something warm to drink from Vesemir before continuing. “He probably wants to be alone, you know how he gets.”

“Fuck that.” Lambert throws himself into a chair and clunks his feet onto the table to punctuate his point. “You should have dragged his sorry ass back. What use is he to anyone, moping around wallowing in self-pity by himself? Now I’m out part of my entertainment for the winter. Did anyone think of that?”

Eskel snorts. “Yes, you are clearly the person most hurt by this.” He knows that Lambert is not actually this callous and that he does actually care, but he also would not have expected the younger witcher to react in any other way. Maybe Yennefer should have gone to Lambert instead; he wouldn’t have let any qualms about respecting Geralt’s wishes get in the way of doing what he wanted. 

“Mm-hmm. Lambert the perpetually fucked, that’s me.” Part of his bravado is belayed by the quiet tone in his tentative follow-up question. “Who died?”

“Jaskier.”

Vesemir shakes his head sorrowfully. “Shame that.”

Lambert almost falls out of his chair. “Who?”

Eskel rolls his eyes. Lambert never knows when to stop with a stupid joke and this is too far. “The man Geralt’s been travelling with on and off for two decades. The bard. Come on, you know who Jaskier is. Stop being a dick.”

“No, that’s not-” He looks shaken, paler than usual and yellow eyes wide. “When?”

“Sometime this summer. Why?” If Lambert’s faking it, it’s a pretty good act. Eskel can feel himself catching some of his discomfit.

“I met the bard not two weeks before I got here. In Ard Carraigh. We got drunk and traded stories about what an ass Geralt is.”

Eskel can feel the blood start to rush in his ears before Vesemir sagely interrupts. “If Jaskier’s dead we have to assume you met a doppler.”

“You can’t tell me the man I was drinking with hasn’t spent the better part of two decades with Geralt of fucking Rivia.” Lambert slams a hand on the table. “Trust me, he knows him! And he was performing Jaskier’s songs!”

“Doppler’s can steal talents as well as memories, you know this. Or you would if you had ever listened-”

“I know that a doppler would be insane to steal such an audacious cover! Why take a form literally guaranteed to bring monster hunters to your doorstep? It was Jaskier! You think I can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake, old man?”

“I think,” Vesemir is pointedly not losing his temper, although Eskel isn’t sure he isn’t just keeping his cool to spite his hot-headed student, “That Geralt would not accept the death of someone he cared for unless he was sure. He must have been there. Or at least seen a body.”

“Well he wouldn’t have!” Lambert snaps back. “Jaskier told me the asshole went off on him near the beginning of the summer and he hasn’t seen him since. Said some damn hurtful things and Jaskier’s got a few belters lambasting him now. I was going to give him a fucking hard time about it when he got here.”

Vesemir rolled his eyes. “Obviously a doppler would lie about-”

“About something I could so easily check?”

“He wouldn’t necessarily know that-”

“Ha!” Lambert slams a hand on the table and points triumphantly at the older witcher. “Except if he’s stolen Jaskier’s memories like you said he would know I was literally on my way back to Kaer Morhen to see Geralt!” Victorious, Lambert is willing to be slightly less aggressive and decides to change tack to go for cajoling. “Come on. You know most dopplers don’t want attention! The best explanation is that I met Jaskier and someone lied to Geralt.”

Vesemir would undoubtedly argue he is not sulking at being intellectually routed by Lambert, but he is wearing an expression like he's sucking on a lemon, so it's at least left a bad taste in his mouth. “It would have been an easy thing to sniff out the lie if it is as you say and the bard has been melodramatically lamenting their fight in every tavern from here to Nilfgaard. Who exactly do you think Geralt would have blindly trusted without trying to verify the information?”

“Oh fuck.” Eskel had had a brief reprieve from the feeling of the floor falling out from underneath him as he had followed the back-and-forth of the argument, but now it was back with a vengeance. “A ghost.” The two others stare at him, waiting for an explanation. “Yennefer said Geralt wouldn’t help her kill a forktail because he was busy with a penitent. When she interrupted him on that hunt is when he told her about Jaskier’s passing. She’s the one who told me; I didn’t meet Geralt myself.” He swallows around a lump of guilt rising in his throat. “She said he looked awful. I thought it was just a bad hunt and grief but what if it was- I mean, if Geralt and Jaskier did have a fight and then Jaskier died before…” 

Vesemir furrows his brow, quickly connecting dots. “You think Jaskier’s ghost could be haunting Geralt?”

“Jaskier doesn’t have a fucking ghost, because he’s not dead! He’s alive and warbling on in Ard Carraigh!”

“If it isn’t Jaskier’s ghost,” Eskel counters, “whose ghost is it? Why would a penitent lie? They’re not exactly subtle monsters; they just want revenge!”

“Then it’s not a penitent! Think asshole! If it were a penitent, why the fuck would it have left Geralt alive long enough for Yennefer to even find him? They don’t have any restraint!”

“Because it’s Jaskier! You know how much was between them! Just because you have no control over your temper-”

Lambert sneers at him. Eskel should have known better than to go personal; he always pushes back twice as hard and four times as vicious. “You really think Geralt deserves a penitent after him? That he would have done something that bad? Some friend you are. If whatever it is does manages to kill him, maybe his ghost should haunt you.”

Eskel sees red and is over the table with Lambert’s collar in his hands before he’s made any conscious decisions. Considering that the bastard’s throat is right there, throttling him comes to mind.

“If,” Vesemir doesn’t raise his voice, but it still arrests the burgeoning fight. For the first time since the argument started, Eskel can see growing concern in the older witcher’s eyes. “And this is a big if, but if it is not a penitent, we can assume that whatever it is told Geralt that Jaskier was dead specifically for the distress it would cause Geralt and is now keeping him isolated to prevent the ruse from being found out.”

The answer comes to them both at the same time, so Eskel isn’t sure who actually says it out loud. “Hym.” They’re both scrambling for the door in the next instant.

“Stop!” Vesemir does raise his voice this time. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Lambert whirls, teeth bared, but Eskel stops him with a raised arm and responds, “Don’t stop us. We don’t care if it’s a long shot, we’re going to get Geralt. I don’t know exactly what is going on-”

“Obviously! But get your fucking coats first.” Vesemir snaps and heads for the kitchen. “You’ll have to leave the horses, they won’t make it down the pass in this weather. Take some money, find a mage, Ard Carraigh is probably your closest bet, and buy a teleport. Promise them reagents if it will help. You can also check on this potential doppler if it’s still there, just to be certain. I’ll get some food ready for you to take. And Lambert!” He throws the last comment over his shoulder, “Get your fucking armour and swords! Gods above...”

After raiding their savings, Eskel is fidgeting in the doorway when Lambert sheepishly returns, fully dressed and armed. Vesemir is still in the kitchen so they wait in silence for a few seconds and Eskel can feel the doubt creeping in. “This is a lot of speculation, you know. What if we’re wrong and Jaskier is a penitent?”

Lambert shrugs. “Then we deal with it and make sure it doesn’t get Geralt. And I’m killing the fucking doppler in Ard Carraigh.”

“Okay, but what if we’re wrong and it isn’t Jaskier, but it isn’t a hym? Maybe Geralt was just on some unrelated penitent hunt when Yennefer met him. This whole mad dash could all be for nothing.”

“If it isn’t Jaskier’s ghost, then I’m right about meeting the man in person a few weeks back and that makes it worth it. Do you know what I would give- “ Lambert cuts himself off and just when it has been long enough that Eskel is sure he isn’t going to finish he finally adds, “You’re my brother and I love you. But if Aiden were still alive and you knew about it, I’d cut your fucking heart out if you waited to tell me even a second longer than you had to.”

*

Geralt stops when he gets to a suitable precipice. It’s not where they thought they lost Borch and his bodyguards, Téa and Véa, before they knew the former was actually a gold dragon, but it’s similar enough. Scant scrub brush and a long view down. He had had half a mind to return there for the symmetry of the thing, partly for wishing he had fallen instead and partly thinking that something like that might make for a more story-like death that would please Jaskier, but he isn’t sure if he remembers the way back there and it’s not like the mountain has a lack of sheer cliff faces. He doesn’t need to find that exact one. He just needs to find one that will work.

*

As soon as Yennefer’s eyes flutter open she hears a flustered familiar voice, clearly trying to exonerate itself before the sorceress jumps to any conclusions that may be detrimental to its owner’s well being. “You’re on the bed in my room. You’ve only been out for a few minutes. The barman carried you up and I swear on Geralt’s honour he was a complete gentleman about it, as was I while you were resting. It just seemed like a better option than leaving you unconscious on the common room floor with everyone and their mother gawking at you. Are you okay?”

She sits up fast enough to make her head swim again for a second and grabs the surprised speaker desperately by the forearms. It looks as much like him as it sounds. “You’re dead!”

He flinches at her touch and meets her wide-eyed stare for a second before pulling out of her grasp, snorting and rolling his eyes. “Great. Yes. Well, that makes perfect sense: threaten me for trying to help. Because gods’ forbid anyone know that Yennefer of Vengerberg isn’t completely beyond the needs of us mere mortals. I suppose you wanted to lie there in the piss and spilled ale? I try to do one nice thing for you and-”

She tunes out the blather, thinking quickly. It could be a doppler or some other illusion and she has a silver knife in her boot. She narrows her eyes and draws it as she gets off the bed.

“Whoa!” The man immediately starts backing towards the closed door. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, now! I thought you were- It was a joke! Hyperbole! You can’t actually-” When his back finally hits the door he has his hands up, but empty. Nothing to defend himself with other than his words and his charm. If it is a fake it’s doing an awfully good job at replicating his affections. “The whole room saw you go down! Are you going to murder them all too, you absolute madwoman!” His voice raises considerably on the last insult, clearly hoping to draw attention.

Yennefer moves quickly and decisively and places the silver blade on his cheek while muttering a counterspell for illusions. Nothing happens except Jaskier yelps and closes his eyes. Jaskier. She drops the knife and throws her arms around him.

“Right. Okay.” Jaskier initially stiffens in her hug, but eventually brings one hand up to tentatively pat her back. “Not that I don’t vastly prefer this greeting to the kind you normally give me, well, minus the bit at the beginning with the knife, but are you sure you’re okay? Did you hit your head? Forget who you are? Who I am?”

“Jaskier.” She finally stops squeezing him, but doesn’t let him go. She takes a step back, keeping her hands on his arms, unwilling to let him go in case he does turn out to be an illusion. Fate has traditionally given her so few second chances, part of her is not sure if she entirely trusts this yet. Another part of her is aware she’s smiling like an idiot, but she doesn’t really feel like doing anything about it. “I thought you were dead!”

The insufferable man raises a brow. “Thought? Or hoped?” His eyes light up mischievously as he thinks of something and smirks. “Did you try to curse me and fail horribly? Not quite as good as you thought you were, oh powerful miss sorceress? Clearly the overwhelming power of my pure heart has thwarted your dark magics and-”

Yennefer finally let’s go to smack him in the upper arm. It’s definitely Jaskier. “Ass. If I cursed you, you’d be dead before your next heartbeat.” The bard opens his mouth to counter, but Yennefer presses on, one finger raised mock threateningly. “And don’t tempt me to prove it! I can’t believe I was happy to see you.”

Jaskier grins at that. “You were happy to see me? Wait, did you faint out of sheer joy at-”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve been working long hours and haven’t had anything to eat all day. It was that combined with a moment of shock, that’s all. Geralt told me you were dead months ago; I was just surprised to see you singing.”

Blue eyes cloud over quickly as Jaskier pushes past her to sit on the bed. “Is that what he’s telling people?” With a sigh he adds, “Well I suppose I am, afterall, to him.” Seeing Yennefer’s furrowed brow he waves his hands non-committedly while not meeting her eyes. “We had a bit of a falling out.”

“What did you do?”

“Apparently I’ve done nothing but make his life miserable from the moment we met.”

He says it nonchalantly, and she has no idea whether that’s actually what Geralt said or if Jaskier’s natural inclination toward the dramatic is at work, but he’s obviously hurt. She’d thought the bard’s skin was too thick to ever give the witcher’s barbs any purchase, but apparently he’d finally dug deep enough to sting. That explains why Jaskier wasn’t with Geralt when she met him, but something is still not lining up. “I don’t think Geralt was speaking metaphorically. I don’t think he knows how to speak metaphorically. He said you were eaten by nekkers.”

Jaskier snorts and rolls his eyes at that. “I’m sure he wishes that were true.”

Because old habits die hard, she has a momentary thought to take Jaskier’s admitted defeat and lord it over him, to proclaim her complete victory as the one Geralt loves best, but she stomps on that thought quickly. She has a chance here, fresh earth between them, newly tilled and turned, and she can plant whatever she wants. And she doesn’t need any more weeds. Slowly, Yennefer moves to sit beside him on the bed and covers his hand with her own. Jaskier, with an instinct born from years of conflict between them, flinches away from her, but she holds tight. She didn’t expect this to be easy, but that’s sure as hell never stopped her from trying before. From succeeding. Although, annoyingly, she finds she can’t quite meet his eyes as he gapes at her, so instead she focuses on their joined hands. “He really, really doesn’t.”

The bard is still tense. “And he told you this, did he?”

She snorts at that and nudges him with her shoulder. “Gods, no! Does that sound like him at all?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond immediately, but she can see some of the tension drain out of him. Unfortunately it seems to be replaced with a solemn defeat as opposed to hope for reconciliation. “I thought- I thought if I just stayed away for the summer, gave him some time to cool down, gave myself some time to think about it… You know I was even loitering here in Ard Carraigh hoping that I might bump into him before he locked himself away at Kaer Morhen for the winter? But it was all just a stupid fancy. If he says I’m dead it’s because he wants it to be so. I haven’t been following him, but I haven’t exactly been making myself scarce either. And I’ve been writing- Well, I just thought maybe he would have heard some of the things I’ve been writing. But obviously that was stupid. He just decided I was dead and moved on with his life. Good for him.”

“I would not call what I saw him doing moving on.”

“Oh, what was he doing?”

“Well,” Yennefer fumbles briefly, realizing how weak this argument is. “Ghost hunting.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Yes, that sounds very out of character for him. He’s clearly really torn up about it.”

“It wasn’t what he was doing it was how he was doing it! Oh!” Yennefer huffs in frustration and changes tactics. “Do you think he loves me?”

She can feel Jaskier thinking besider her, trying to work out if this is a trap. Yennefer smirks confidently. It completely is, but he will still fall for it. Inevitably he murmurs, “I would say so.”

“Did he tell you?”

“Does that sound like him at all?” Jaskier shoots back just as quick and just as sarcastic as she had been.

“So how do you know, hmm?” She squeezes his hand in hers, a little surprised that he hasn’t tried to reclaim it. When he waffles on a response she gently chides, “Come on bard. One would think this should be an easy one for a poet.”

He hums thoughtfully and for a second she thinks he might actually sing, but ultimately he just whispers, as if it physically pains him to say. “It’s in his eyes. In the way he gazes at you in wonder when you’re not looking. In the way they unerringly track your motion across a space regardless of all other distractions. In the way they soften at the very thought of you. It’s the way he sometimes hesitates a second before touching you, like he’s worried he won’t be permitted or like he’s worried you’ll shatter like so much priceless glass. It’s the things he does for you, without hesitation, without question. How he thinks all he has to offer anyone is his service and so he lays it at your feet like a laurel crown for you to wear or cast off at your pleasure. Gods, Yennefer, it’s in the way he breathes!” His voice catches for a second, not quite a sob, more a derisive laugh at his own expense. “You’d have to be an idiot not to know.”

She has to swallow around the lump welling uncomfortably in her throat. Damn. She’d known she was giving Jaskier a chance to practice his own kind of magic, but she hadn’t expected him to deliver quite like that. She carefully clears her throat and continues in a measured tone, “And since we’re agreed I’m not an idiot-”

“Are we agreed on that?”

“And!” She continues sharply, “Since we’re agreed I’m not an idiot, I therefore know what Geralt looks like when he loves someone.”

“Fine. But I don’t see what-”

“So!” She hates being interrupted, especially when she’s trying to do something nice. This is exactly why it is so rarely worth the effort. “So I know what I’m talking about when I say he loves you. Honestly, think for a second. Why would I give you such a hard time if I didn’t see you as a rival?”

“You’re not giving me a hard time now.” He says it quietly, like he's worried pointing it out will remind Yennefer of her regular role and she will snap back to cold and cruel. His tone reminds her of how she spoke to her tormentors when she was young, before Aretuza. It stings to realize she's become something she hated. She can't change the past, the only thing she can do is pursue a different future.

“Well, I am considering, just considering mind you, offering you a promotion.”

“To?”

“Accomplice.”

Jaskier laughs again incredulously. “Why?”

“Because.” She doesn’t know how to say it out loud yet, not entirely, but luckily he’s just given her a perfect example of why. It's because of how he interacts with the world, of how he embodies qualities Yennefer haltingly wishes she could express more easily. To be more kind, less calculating. “Because when I asked you how you knew Geralt loved me you didn’t even think of mentioning the fucking wish.”

“Well that would have just been stupid, and since we’re agreed that I’m not an idiot-”

“We are definitely not agreed on that.”

“Well, can’t blame me for trying.” He huffs softly in amusement before continuing. “You know Geralt. Even under the influence of the extreme duress you created, he wouldn’t have wished for anything to hurt you or force your feelings. And I don’t think he even knows how to wish for love. Oh and don’t bother getting out your thumbscrews either, because I don’t actually know the wording of his wish any more than you do. I just spent some time bouncing ideas off of Borch, since he could sense some of whatever destiny or other bollocks is at play betwixt you. His theory is that Geralt probably tried something clever to trip up the djinn and mess with the rules of engagement like ‘I wish to die first,’ since djinn can’t kill their masters and it would have to leave you alone. My money’s on something stupid and spur of the moment though, like ‘Let me save her,’ so now you’re just perpetually stuck with a witcher showing up whenever you need him. It’s a great hardship, I know, but you’ll probably find a way to survive his noble heroics.”

Yennefer can recognize the start of a ramble. Jaskier will go on in perpetuity unless she stops him, so she interjects, "I think he does."

"What?" In his confusion Jaskier turns to her and their eyes finally meet for the first time since Yennefer sat down. His really are the most ridiculously handsome blue.

"Know how to wish for love. I think you taught him." And she kisses him. Not passionately, because that isn't how she's falling for this annoying man, just a gentle peck, like planting a seed. Regardless, it seems to work well enough to shut him up and she thinks she'll have to tell Geralt about this secret technique for silencing him when they finally reunite. It’s nice to feel that anticipation of sharing something instead of jealousy. She thinks she’ll try to keep feeling that. “So thank you.”

The door is flung open suddenly, shattering the moment and Yennefer is outright robbed of Jaskier’s flustered response. It had been locked, but that clearly hadn’t even slowed whoever wanted in. Yennefer stands quickly, calling chaos to protect the both of them when she recognizes the man barging through the kicked in door. “Eskel?”

“Yennefer?” Seeing the sorceress gives the witcher pause. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re the one barging into people’s rooms uninvited! What are you-”

“Not necessarily people.” Another witcher, smaller than Eskel, barrels past the both of them and grabs Jaskier by the collar while drawing a sword. “Let’s see shall we?”

“Lambert!” Jaskier squeals as he’s lifted and cringes as he sees the sword drawn, but the witcher just lays the silver blade against his neck. “Ha!” He drops Jaskier and spins to confront Eskel. “Not a doppler!”

“Yes, we’ve been over that.” Yennefer crosses her arms, unimpressed.

“Why the fuck is everyone threatening me with blades?!?” Jaskier holds a hand to his throat. Lambert hadn’t left a mark, but it was probably still not a pleasant feeling.

“Not blades. Well, they didn’t have to be blades. Just silver.” Eskel explains curtly. “Dopplers react to silver.” He turns back to Lambert. “If he isn’t a doppler that means we have no time to lose. We have to get to them before Geralt-”

Lambert cuts him off, clearly not liking where that sentence was going. “Geralt isn’t dead.”

“Geralt could be dead?!?” Jaskier latches on to Eskel’s thought.

“Geralt isn’t dead.” Yennefer repeats with more authority. “Whatever the magic between us, I’m sure I would know if Geralt died.” She meets Eskel’s eyes. “You said get to them. Who’s them?” The unspoken offer of a teleport hangs between them: the price she’s willing to pay for information.

He looks uncomfortable confiding in her, like he’s betraying some kind of trust, but she can’t bloody well help without information. She crosses her arms and looks fierce and Eskel, predictably, caves. “Geralt and the ghost. We think it’s possible Geralt is being haunted by a hym.”

“What’s a hym?” Jaskier’s voice is getting higher the more baffled he becomes. Yennefer resolves to not think of it as cute.

“Nasty bugger of a demon.” Lambert finally sheaths his sword. “They latch on to someone who’s feeling guilty about something and make it worse. Much worse. They feed on their host’s misery, pain and anguish. Eventually the host commits suicide and the hym has to find another meal ticket, but they try to keep them alive and in constant pain as long as possible.”

Yennefer is quicker than Jaskier. Her eyes widen as she puts together the pieces: Geralt’s wretched appearance, the story about a penitent hunt and his certainty that the bard was gone. “Fuck. You think a hym convinced Geralt that Jaskier was dead!”

Eskel winces. “We’re not sure, but it makes sense, given the information we have. Which is why we’ve got to get to Geralt.”

The sorceress nods immediately. “Give me a second to find him and I can open a portal.” She closes her eyes and tries to focus on the pull of his soul on hers and not Eskel continuing to talk to Jaskier.

“I’m sorry about the door and for imposing on you like this. You looked like you were in the middle of, umm…”

“Fucking Geralt’s girlfriend?” Lambert helpfully offers. “Damn Jaskier, I knew you were still upset but stealing his witch? That’s some cold-hearted revenge.”

“I wasn’t- We weren’t- We were just-” Jaskier just stammers. She can pick up from the surface of his mind that he still isn’t sure what just happened between them and is more than a little concerned that naming it might cause it to cease to exist.

She has no such qualms. She’s always unabashedly gone for what she wants and she’s hardly going to stop now just because it might offend Geralt’s brothers’ delicate sensibilities. Eyes still closed, Yennefer comes to his rescue. “I fuck who I want, witcher.”

Lambert, however, is much harder to intimidate than Eskel. “There a sign-up sheet somewhere?”

“Anyway!” Trying valiantly to keep the conversation focussed, Eskel continues, “Look, Jaskier, I know the two of you were fighting, so you might not want to help, but if you could write us a letter or give us a token or anything that would help us convince Geralt that you are still alive that would make it easier to break the demon’s hold. It’ll prove the hym is lying and that will weaken it. Once it’s untethered from a host, we should be able to kill it.”

Jaskier, still sputtering, finally finds his voice. “You are allowed to impose! You think your brother’s life is in danger! You can fucking inconvenience whoever you want to prevent that from happening. And you! You can be mad at someone and need some time away from them without wanting them to be tortured to death by a sadistic demon! For fuck’s sake. I’m coming!”

“Good.” Yennefer opens her eyes, chaos crackling on her fingertips. “I found him.”

*

Standing on the edge, Geralt takes a deep breath and looks up. It’s dark, but he can’t see the moon or any stars. The wind picks up and he can smell the mountain forest he’s been wandering these past months settled under its winter coating of snow. He shuffles his feet and rolls his shoulders and the last thing he thinks before he steps off is that once you’ve made your mind up, how easy it actually is to fall.

The first thing he thinks as the hands grab the back of his tunic trying to catch him is that the rotten and worn fabric won’t hold even his much reduced weight. And he’s right. But the half-second delay has given time for a tendril of magic to worm its way around his torso and start dragging him back onto solid ground. More hands grab him and pull him away from the edge and Geralt’s fuzzy mind manages to resolve them into Eskel and Lambert. Blinking and looking around he sees that the magic is, maybe unsurprisingly, Yennefer, but what stops him dead is that there are now two Jaskiers: one ghostly and wailing quickly retreating from the witchers and one who looks like he’s about to start crying, holding up the piece he ripped off of Geralt’s shirt in both hands like a talisman. The more colourful Jaskier, the one holding the fabric, starts to approach him and Geralt instinctively takes a step back only to find that Eskel has put the solid mass of his body between his brother and the cliff. His voice is harsh from disuse but he manages to croak out, “What…”

“Oh gods when your tunic ripped I thought we were too late.” The new Jaskier keeps approaching and his retreat is blocked, so Geralt has to dodge to his left, into the darker shadows and closer to the Jaskier he is familiar with, who starts hissing, “Have you finally gone mad Geralt? Did you wish so hard to see something that you managed to convince yourself it was real? But you know it’s a lie. You know what you did. You know you can’t take it back.”

Confusingly, the imposter keeps talking over the whispers. “Thank fuck for Yennefer, right? I know, I know. Did you ever think you’d hear me saying that? But she can actually be quite agreeable when push comes to shove. I think she may even be warming on me. Inevitable really, with my charm.”

“Stop talking!” Geralt clamps his hands over his ears in confusion. It blocks out the noise of the new one, but he can still hear the spectral Jaskier’s voice.

“This is what happens when you don’t listen to me. Now they all know. Now they can all see what you really are. You have to get out of here, away from them! Quickly! You have to get me away from your brothers! You’ve put me in danger! You always put me in danger!” 

As if to emphasize the point, he can hear Lambert mutter to Eskel, “I saw it for a second when we landed, but lost track of it when we pulled him up. Did the bastard make a run for it?”

Eskel shakes his head. “It’s still close. It’s too dark here.” At a gesture from Eskel, they both draw silver swords and start tentatively stalking the writhing expanse of shadows in a complimentary pattern. The ghost is normally immaterial, but with Yrden cast and the other witchers methodically covering the ground it is only a matter of time before they spot him.

He has to protect Jaskier. He drops his hands and turns to run. “Geralt!” Yennefer’s voice stops him sharply. “I don’t know what you can hear, we can’t clearly see what is tormenting you, but it isn’t Jaskier.” She points at the imposter. “That’s Jaskier. Really Jaskier. He’s alive. He didn’t die.”

“Yeah!” The man with the bright blue eyes adds. “That thing beside you before was some weird shadowy horned thing. It didn’t look anything like me! I’m right here! In the flesh!”

“No.” Geralt shakes his head, it’s impossible to believe. “You died. I killed you.”

“Yes! It was your fault! It was all your fault! You have to make it up to me! You have to do what I say!” Avoiding the witchers, Jaskier flits to his side to wrap his talons around Geralt, clinging to him for the protection Geralt cruelly denied him in life. “You have to hurt for me.”

“Whatever it’s saying to you, it’s fucking lying!” Lambert curses as he trips through the unnatural fog, enhanced eyesight doing little in the magical darkness. Then, to Eskel, “Is it just me or is it getting worse?”

“Damn thing’s well fed.” The shadows recoil from their bared silver, but not far. Trying to swing randomly in the roiling mass would be like trying to attack waves on the shore. “What is it saying to you, Geralt?” Eskel asks, eyes mostly flicking about for his target, but occasionally catching Geralt’s own.

Geralt can’t help but sob. He doesn’t know who the man claiming to be Jaskier is, but he can smell his brothers, Yennefer. They are either really here or he’s well and truly mad. And if they are here, then, well, he’s never been able to lie to Eskel. “That it’s my fault. That I have to make it better. That I have to hurt.”

“Oh, love,” Not-Jaskier tries to take a step closer, but stops himself when he sees Geralt’s distress. It’s hard to hear him over the wailing of Jaskier’s ghost, but Geralt still makes out, “Do you ever think I would ask that of you?”

“Of course you would!” Geralt knows he doesn’t need to yell, knows now that no one else but him can hear the penitent, but he does anyway. “After everything I said to you! After you finally saw everything I actually am! Of course you would!”

“Of course!” his Jaskier screams along with him. “Of course I would demand this. Of course you deserve it! Now I can’t keep this screen up forever, so don’t listen to these fools and just run you stupid-”

Yennefer takes this opportunity to cast something bright. In a flash the area is lit by an unnatural sun, all except for a shroud of darkness still wailing, still clinging, talon-deep, to Geralt. He snaps his eyes shut, unable to deal with the light after so long in the shadow, but he can sense his brothers taking up flanking positions on either side of him. He grits his teeth and prepares to run for it, to save Jaskier like he failed to do so many months ago, but his weakened body can’t move fast enough. He slips and falls to his knees and the other man, the one claiming to be Jaskier, has his warm hands on Geralt’s before he can recover. He smells like he’s in distress. And like Yennefer. And like chamomile and honey and woodsmoke and music and everything else Geralt was so sure had been locked away from him forever. 

"Fine!” Not-Jaskier is also yelling now. “You think you're awful, that you deserve this. You can even believe that Jaskier would be standing there, encouraging this. That’s complete bullshit for the record, but fine. It’s your head. We’ll accept that as a premise in the argument for now. But who am I then? The man kneeling here begging you not to? I know you. You imagine everyone wants you to do this, to hurt yourself, so you sure as hell aren’t imagining me since I vehemently disagree with that proposition. You don’t let yourself have nice things like that so I must be real; I’m not a figment of your imagination. So who, or what, do you think I am? Who would come here, with nothing but words and wishes, to tell you to stop?!?"

Geralt feels a thrum in his heart, like a plucked string, with the realization that there is really only one answer to that question. Tentatively, he opens his eyes and looks into the face inches from his own. "Jaskier?"

The eyes above the bright smile are blue and wet with tears, but they aren’t glowing. “The one and only.”

There’s a wretched feeling like claws that were buried deep coming out of him and a roar followed shortly by a shriek of distress. He turns to see the demon, a hym he recognizes vaguely, impaled between Lambert and Eskel’s swords, but still thrashing. It doesn’t look anything like Jaskier anymore and if it’s saying something he can no longer understand its cries. Almost mechanically he draws his own silver sword and perfunctorily beheads the monstrosity. With the echo of the last cry fading away, the shadows finally disperse, boiling away into the bright golden sunlight of Yennefer’s unnatural day. And for the first time in what seems like a lifetime for him, it is quiet. For all of eight seconds.

“Was that it?”

“Jaskier!” Eskel scolds sharply at the same time that Lambert sarcastically asks, “What? You wanted it to be harder? One of us to lose a limb maybe?”

“No, no. It’s fine. We’re all fine. It’s great.” Jaskier’s tone of voice does not suggest that it is actually great. If anything, he sounds a little disappointed. “Just a touch anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

Yennefer scoffs in disbelief. “You are the most impossible-”

“You know I’m right! All that rushing about and mistaken identities and unnatural shadow mist and then just-” Jaskier swipes his hand in a slicing movement across his own neck, “-one slice and the thing is down? I mean I did get in a nice little speech there, but I have to say I expected a bit more of a fight than that. No Signs, no potions, no bombs, no daring sword play. Just swoosh and we all walk away?”

Strictly to satisfy Jaskier’s need for the dramatic, and not at all because he is undernourished, exhausted and wounded, Geralt collapses unconscious to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested:
> 
> [Hym](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Hym)
> 
> So five points to Valdyr and ImperialDragon for calling it in chapter 1! And to everyone else who refused to believe Jaskier was dead (whether it was because I didn't tag Major Character Death or because of hints I tried to put in the story or just sheer stubborness). Hopefully even though you saw it coming, it was still satisfying to see how the story played it out. 
> 
> One chapter left, which is the 'lighter than it started' bit I promised at the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt cannot remember most of his first few days back at Kaer Morhen. He remembers briefly regaining consciousness to Lambert cursing under his breath as he stitches up and wraps the mess he’s made of his left forearm. He remembers Eskel gently tying a blindfold around his eyes, murmuring about how he’ll get used to the light again, but this will help for now. He remembers Vesemir hacking his hair off, deeming the tangled mess unsalvageable while Jaskier helped him in the bath, finally disposing of several seasons worth of grime. He remembers Yennefer bringing him meals and sitting silently in a chair beside his bed as he ate, not forcing a conversation. He sleeps a lot. He doesn’t remember ever being alone.

_They don’t trust you. They feel like they have to babysit you now. You’ve made yourself work for them, a chore._

And he still hears it: the hym’s voice echoing in his head. But he knows the demon’s dead, he killed it with his own two hands and a lot of help, so it must just be some residual effect, sure to fade with time, just like the urgency to end his own life has faded. His memories of that night, and the many long dark nights before it, seem jarringly disjointed from him now, like a nightmare in a way. But he can still remember making the decisions that lead him there, remember feeling like they made sense, remember knowing that they were necessary. He can still remember choosing to jump. Every time he retraces those steps in his mind, he feels a familiar tightness in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He is not going to cry here, not now that the monster is dead and he should be fine. Not now that he should be getting better.

But he hears it as Vesemir changes his dressing: _He’s so disappointed in you; you were supposed to be stronger than this._ And he hears it in Yennefer’s silent vigil: _She hates you; she’s only here as a favour to the others._ And he hears it in Eskel praising Jaskier’s playing: _They’re happier without you; you never deserved them._ The longer it continues, the harder it is to believe that he is still just experiencing the residue of being ensorcelled for so long. And the more he can compare it to the original (bright, chatty, quick, an odd mix of self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing) the more he feels like a fool for not recognizing it wasn't Jaskier, especially by the end. It was just so easy to believe. And even when it didn't sound anything like Jaskier, it was still frustratingly familiar.

_You're so stupid._

The agitation has nowhere to go with the current sedentary lifestyle being imposed upon him and he finds himself running the fingers of his right hand over the bandage on his left forearm. He knows it is a bad idea, but the memory of the release is ridiculously tempting. Although of course no one will let him near a damn knife now, so it’s a useless thought.

He finally snaps, predictably, at Lambert. He’d been trying to doze with Yennefer reading in the armchair near the hearth when the youngest witcher had barged in, told the sorceress she’d served her sentence and then flopped into the chair she vacated, sighing and glaring at Geralt. At least the others have the decency to pretend like he isn’t a chore, but of course that isn’t Lambert’s style. The anger rushes in like a summer storm, quick and unexpected. He goes from half asleep to enraged so fast he isn’t even sure if he’s angry at the others for pretending or Lambert for not pretending or, illogically, both. He feels his shoulders tense and his core flex, his much weakened form still preparing for a fight. Under the close scrutiny of his brother’s heightened sense, the change in his body language is unmistakable. Still Lambert prods, “What?”

“Am I boring you?” he spits out between clenched teeth. 

Lambert huffs a laugh. “Gods yes.”

“Then by all means feel free to fuck off and leave me alone.”

There’s an uncharacteristic moment of silence after the offer, Lambert usually bites back quickly, as if it is actually being considered. It gives Geralt a second to hope. Maybe Lambert will leave him alone and he can… His hand clenches tight around the bandages on his forearm. Unfortunately, it doesn’t hurt enough to distract him. He almost expects to hear Lambert leaving and so is surprised to hear instead a soft sigh and “No.”

It was enough to get Geralt sitting up, throwing his blanket off and shouting, "You're handling me!"

The other witcher simply raises a brow, obviously amused at the outburst. "Of course we're fucking handling you - you tried to kill yourself. And I’m damn sure not convinced you won’t try again, or at least try carving another piece of your arm away, so we’re not likely to go away any time soon. We've even got a rota, posted in the kitchen and everything. We’ve broken it up into six hour shifts, so everybody gets a day off now and again. We’ve got it all covered so there’s no use in fussing. You’ll get your precious alone time back when we say you do.”

“So I’m just supposed to lie here indefinitely?”

“No one’s making you lie there, moron. You wanna train? I would seriously welcome the opportunity to kick your ass. Run? Eskel and I can keep up with you. Vesemir too. Hell, I bet the bard could keep pace with you in your sorry state. You wanna read? Play cards? Talk? Cry? Write? Sing? Dance? I don’t fucking care. I mean, if you want to take care of Little Geralt I'd appreciate it if you'd wait for the bitch or the bard's shifts, since they'd probably be happy to help you with it, but don't think you can make me uncomfortable enough to leave: I know it's been a while, but we did used to bunk here 10 teenage boys to a room. I can pretend I don't know someone's masturbating six feet away from me with the best of them. Have off.” Lambert’s eyes narrow in all seriousness. “And if you wanna fucking lay there like a lump then I’m gonna sit here for six damned hours staring at you and there’s nothing you can say or do to stop me.”

_He doesn’t care for you, he just pities you._

“I don’t need your damned pity! All of you! You can just go and leave me-”

“Ha!” Lambert scoffs at him. “Now I know that thing fucked up your head bad. I’ve never pitied a living soul in my life.”

The thing is, Geralt knows that’s objectively right. Lambert doesn’t pity people, he never has, unless you count his frequent bemoaning of his own fate as a kind of self-pity. The momentary shock of having one of the statements in his head so thoroughly refuted defuses the confrontation. Geralt just ends up blinking at Lambert, brow wrinkled in confusion.

His younger brother sighs. “Stop it.” As Geralt’s perplexed look only grows, Lambert comes over and sits on the side of the bed. “Look you break a leg, you stay off it right? You can gripe about it all you want, but you have to let other people carry you and your baggage so as to give it a chance to heal. So just…” he flicks Geralt in the forehead, hard, to emphasize his point, “stay off of it. For a bit."

_Do you really think you’re ever going to get better? Come on, Geralt. Stop pretending._

He breathes in sharply, finally recognizing the voice and feeling a dull terror as the realization inexorably creeps through him, like rot through a log. He quickly turns away before Lambert’s clever eyes can read anything else, and lies down, wrapping himself up in the blanket again. He closes his eyes and tries to follow Lambert’s advice, tries to meditate and let his mind go blank. He doesn’t need to think anymore anyway. He knows what the problem is. He knows why the voice won’t ever go away. He knows why it feels so frustratingly familiar. There is no unfamiliar demon stalking the shadows of his mind. Not anymore. The voice isn’t the hym, just him.

*

To Eskel’s delight, Geralt forces himself out of bed the next morning. He doesn’t say anything, and Eskel doesn’t push, but he does grin encouragingly as Geralt raids his trunk for his winter clothes. They fit poorly, a sombre sign of exactly how much muscle he has lost. He feels a twinge of guilt knowing that his brother, his near twin when they were younger, optimistically thinks he’s up and dressed because he is improving, when in reality it’s just that he doesn't see the point in lazing around anymore. He isn’t healing, it isn’t going to ever get better than this, so he might as well just get on with it. Sooner started, sooner finished, as they say. Although he doesn't say. Not out loud anyway. It would just upset Eskel and likely prolong the enforced probationary period on his self-autonomy. And Lambert’s right, not that he would ever admit that aloud either: he is bored. Maybe that is some kind of progress after all. From the timelessness of this summer’s despair, he’s up to three whole distinct emotions: worthlessness, anger and boredom. He keeps this wry observation to himself as well though, since somehow he doesn’t think Eskel would find it funny. Besides, he wants to check something in the bestiary.

_Do you really still have hope that it’s just an after-effect of the hym? You think you’d know better than that by now._

He does know better, he tells himself firmly. He knows hope is just a precursor to disappointment. He had hope before Yennefer found out what he'd done to her and look how that turned out. So he knows. But still there’s no harm in checking, right? Just to be sure. Just in case. It gives him something to do anyway.

_Idiot._

The library is on the main floor, or at least it is now, so he’s got several flights of stairs to tackle. When Kaer Morhen was actively training witchers the main floor was a large open space, able to seat a hundred men and boys for meals easily. Now it is a cluttered mess, things rescued from the rest of the collapsing infrastructure taking refuge in the solid heart of the keep. By the bottom his body informs him in no uncertain terms that he now has a choice between either sitting down voluntarily or lying down involuntarily. Defeated, he drops to his bum on the last step and rests his head on his knees, which bounces his primary emotion from boredom back to worthlessness, but Eskel just nonjudgmentally sits beside him. If you’d asked him before if someone could exude a lack of critique in the simple act of sitting, Geralt would have said no, but trust Eskel to somehow figure it out. He doesn’t ask where they are going or offer to fetch something for him; he seems content simply to let Geralt set the pace and follow along, just like when they were younger.

_He thinks he’s helping you. He thinks you can be helped. If you were a decent man, you’d tell him to stop wasting his effort._

“Sorry.” The word is barely audible, but witcher’s have good ears.

Eskel just shrugs off the apology though. “For sitting? It’s not exactly a hardship.” His smile is small, it’s always small, always conscious of the scars on his face, but bright. “This is literally the farthest I’ve seen you move under your own power since coming home. If I thought you’d appreciate it and not deck me, I’d be dancing in the halls.” He claps a large hand on Geralt’s shoulder and the weight of it, everything the casual contact represents, everything he knows he’s supposed to be to Eskel, is near crippling. He has to take a deep breath to steady himself before he starts blabbering more apologies and crying. Misreading the source of Geralt’s distress, Eskel just squeezes tightly and then lets go. “Your strength will come back. Give it time.”

If nothing else, at least the miscommunication feels familiar. This is far from the first time he’s felt inadequate and Eskel, too kind to see Geralt for what he really is, has brushed it off. It’s not necessarily a pleasant thought, but it’s somewhat centering, even comforting to realize that he was accustomed to slogging through his days keeping the voice to himself before the hym; he’ll get used to it again. Silence, he remembers, is his great ally. It allows people to make their own incorrect judgments based on their rose-coloured perceptions of him instead of actually seeing him truly. It keeps them far enough away that they will never be able to hear the voice and recognize their mistake.

“Hm.” He offers in response, pulling himself to his feet again, and predictably Eskel accepts it as whatever he needs it to mean.

The bestiary he’s after is one of the most well-worn in Kaer Morhen’s possession. It specializes in different types of ghost, spirit and demon. Those are always the types of creatures that comprise the bulk of their work, especially given the changing times. Ogroids, hybrids, draconids, insectoids - kill enough of them and you can actually render the breeding population extinct, remove the problem permanently, but nothing will ever stop people from being horrendous to each other. It doesn’t take him long to find the entry he is looking for:

> Hyms are telepathic, able to read the thoughts and emotions of sentient beings in order to locate their preferred prey: an individual who believes themselves guilty of some unspeakable crime. Once they have latched onto a suitable target, the hym uses this knowledge to weave elaborate hallucinations meant to encourage the individual’s own negative feelings and acts of self-harm. They feed on suffering, slowly driving their host to madness and ultimately suicide if not destroyed.

The individual’s own negative feelings. No wonder the damn thing had been so strong. No wonder he'd been such an easy target. He closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. He tells himself he isn’t disappointed.

“Find what you were looking for?” Eskel tries to tactfully ask as he patiently trails Geralt, shuffling his way slowly to the kitchen. There is no way, from the distance he was hovering, that he couldn’t have read every word. That he couldn’t know.

The phrase ‘the individual’s own’ rings like the echo of a life sentence in his head. “Yes.”

He gets up again the next day. And the day after that. He starts eating meals at regular times and with the others, listening blankly to their chatter, responding only when necessary and only in ways that won’t give him away. He starts training with the other witchers again, although Vesemir tells him right off the bat that there is no way he will be in shape for the Path in the spring. His old teacher actually, clearly unthinkingly, uses the expression that him heading out alone would be tantamount to suicide. The older witcher immediately flinches when he realizes what he’s said. Eskel too actually. Geralt doesn’t though. Doesn’t mention that he’s not entirely sure he would be disappointed if Vesemir did send him out to die. The rest of his life seems like a long fucking time to him right now, but he isn’t going to bring that up, not when they all tried so hard to save him. It would be disrespectful. So he just stares at Vesemir’s mumbled apology, does not start clawing at his left forearm and nods once the other witcher stops stuttering. It works. It works really well.

It’s only a week after that that they give him his first day to himself. After breakfast and morning training, Yennefer, whose turn it would be if they were still keeping to the schedule, does ask him if he wants to play chess, but she doesn’t force the issue when he says no and she doesn’t follow him when he walks away. Geralt grabs a coat and climbs the stairs of the highest tower still standing at the keep. He’s not planning on doing anything. He just wants to look, to see how tempting it is. If he’s going to get used to suppressing this too, it’ll be useful to know what he’s up against. To his surprise, there’s already a bundled figure on the balcony when he opens the door at the top of the stairs. Jaskier doesn’t turn around to watch him approach, probably doesn’t hear him with his muted human senses. He just stays leaning on the railing and surveying the valley below as if he were planning on painting it. Despite Jaskier literally watching him for a fifth of his existence since he woke up here, they haven’t actually talked about anything of substance. They haven’t been quiet hours of course, Jaskier has chattered endlessly at him: updating him on the social lives of a number of variously important courtiers, giving academic opinions on the accuracy of their translation of Elaine Ettariel in the library, workshopping lyrics and rhymes, and generally filling empty spaces with sound. But the sight of Jaskier, pensive and in a high place, sparks the memory of the mountain and before and everything they haven’t addressed comes rushing back with the biting wind. It freezes Geralt in the doorway, makes him catch his breath, which is when Jaskier finally notices him and turns. He doesn’t say anything, just waits to see if Geralt will join him or flee the interaction.

_If you go out there, he’s going to tell you he’s leaving. Now that you’re ‘better,’ he’s going back to the rest of his life. He’s done what any good man would do, what they asked of him. You can’t ask him for more. He never wants to see you again._

He considers running. If he just keeps running from it, Jaskier, kind and stubborn, will stay longer, but he knows he doesn’t deserve that and Jaskier deserves to be free of him, so he squares his shoulders and doesn’t run. He joins Jaskier, resting his forearms on the railing and stares at the stones far below his fingers. “Thought I was off twenty-four hour surveillance.”

Jaskier shrugs and also turns back to the view. “I was here first. You joined me.” He’s shivering and sniffling a bit, but trying to hide it. The gods alone know how long he’s been up here waiting for Geralt.

Maybe the decision that he no longer needs a baby-sitter was not a unanimous one. He gestures to the courtyard stories down. “Still think I’ll try it then?”

The bard bites his lip as he considers it a second. “No. Not really. You’re not-” He hums softly, searching for words. “Well, you seem more like your old self.” He sounds almost sad.

_Of course he’s sad. You hurt him, remember? He’s just showing it more now that he doesn’t feel like he has to walk on eggshells around you anymore._

“Hm.” Jaskier shakes his head and smirks at the non-committal response, taking it as a joke, but, uncharacteristically, doesn’t seem inclined to talk. He’s fiddling with his hands, betraying his nervousness and hesitation about what comes next. It would be easier if he would just get it over with. Even though Geralt has no right to ask anything of him, even though after everything he’s put him through he should really just let Jaskier leave at whatever pace he feels comfortable with, after an awkward few moments of silence, Geralt finally prods, “It’s okay. You can say it.”

“Really? Honestly?” Jaskier’s gaze darts to Geralt’s face, but while the witcher nods his agreement he doesn’t risk eye contact. Jaskier hesitates another moment, deliberating, before sighing. “Well then. I have to say, it’s just a bit, well, disappointing.”

He was expecting Jaskier to say something that hurt him. He had told Jaskier to say it, knowing that. It still hurts. He feels a sharp flash of anger: What the hell is even the point of trying to kill hope and reminding himself how bad it’s going to be and preparing for it if it hurts anyway? What was the point in working so hard to hide the voice if Jaskier could hear it anyway? His fists and jaw clench. “I get it.”

“I would bet every gold coin that’s ever crossed Marquise Serenity’s palm at the Passiflora that you don’t.” His tone is light. Dismissive. Annoying.

“Damn it, of course I do. I told you!” The only reason Jaskier had approached him in the first place all those years ago in Posada was out of a mistaken idea that Geralt was some kind of storybook hero. Of course it would be disappointing to discover that he wasn’t. That he was actually the monster. And in all good stories, the monster is supposed to die at the end, but he couldn’t even do that right. Instead he has to just… keep going. Unsatisfying all around. Jaskier just stares at him skeptically though, so he’s forced to continue. “The story doesn’t conclude well. It’s not… ” Geralt insists, even as he struggles for the right words, “poetic.”

Jaskier snorts. “As one of my favourite teachers was wont to say, nothing ever ends poetically. It just ends, and we turn it into poetry. Although I have to admit I’m not entirely sure what exactly you think is ending now.”

That’s a fair assessment actually. They’ve been over for a while. This has been nothing but an interlude, borrowed time Geralt stole by being pathetic enough to need rescuing. “I suppose I did end it on the mountain.”

The bard’s eyebrows dance through a series of puzzled positions as his mind races through possibilities. “You mean the fight with the hym?”

“I mean the whole…” Geralt trails off, gesturing to encompass them both.

Jaskier’s face finally settles on alarmed. “We’re ending?”

It's Geralt's turn to be confused. He tries stating the obvious fact they've both been dancing around. "You're leaving."

“You’re telling me to go?”

“I know that you are.”

“How?” Jaskier speaks the word loud enough that it echoes back from the other dilapidated towers. “Geralt, how do you know that? You’re obviously not psychic or you’d know that’s complete bunk and I haven’t said anything remotely resembling that to you or anyone else because it’s not fucking true. So who told you that?”

He opens his mouth, but closes it quickly. He doesn’t have a good answer to that question. He’d just, well, known. The voice had told him. It’s not currently forthcoming with a detailed explanation of the logic that predicated that conclusion. “I told you I never wanted to see you again.”

“Well, yes, but that isn’t true.” Surprised by the intensity in his voice, Geralt’s eyes finally meet Jaskier’s.

_If you were stronger, you’d tell him he’s wrong. Use his own logic against him. Tell him he can’t know that. Tell him it is true, that you never want to see him again. You don’t deserve him. Make him go._

The blue eyes staring at him are confident. Unblinking. They make him weak. They always have. “It- It isn’t true. Not at all. I never should have said it and I can never make it up to you and I don't know what to do-”

"I do.” Jaskier grabs his hands and tugs Geralt away from the railing so they can stand face-to-face. “First, you apologize."

"I'm so sorry. Jaskier I-"

"Then, I forgive you.” Jaskier hugs him quickly, a tight almost desperate squeeze that is over far too soon. “There. Done. That’s settled. Now you just need to do Yennefer. I can’t guarantee she’ll be as simple, but I am almost positive she is just waiting for you to say it."

_He’s lying. He’ll never forgive you. She’ll never forgive you._

"That can't be it."

"Why not?”

_You've ruined everything. You can't go back._

“Because I- Because it can’t.”

“You yelled at me and said something very mean. It hurt, a lot, but it's hardly the worst thing anyone’s ever done in the history of humanoid existence. It’s not even the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me personally. You were upset and you lashed out. Irresponsible, yes. Irredeemable, no. And honestly, you weren’t even necessarily one hundred percent off the mark. I know I’m not always the most useful person to have around and I am sorry if I have made some things harder for you. I mean I might have been the reason you were in Cintra, but, let’s be fair here, I’m hardly to blame for you throwing yourself into Duny’s fight. And I’m certainly not to blame for your brilliant bit of wit, claiming the Law of Surprise as a reward, especially considering how you’d just seen it go down like an off-colour joke at a funeral not five minutes earlier.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “You’ll be happy to note that Yennefer has decided the mess with the djinn is at least half my responsibility, so you were partially right on blaming me for that one, according to her. Personally I think she’s giving me far more credit as a factor in your fate than is deserved, but considering the pleasant nature of the penance she’s demanding in recompense, I have chosen to accept the fault.”

_It isn’t Jaskier’s fault. It is all your fault._

“You didn't do anything wrong!”

He smiles softly. "Come on, we both know I'm hardly perfect. How many times have you had to get me out of a bind? I do worry sometimes, despite my bloviating manner, that I'm more trouble than I'm worth. It's why your words did cut so sharp. It's why it was nice to hear you say they weren't true."

_What you did was reprehensible. Beyond recompense._

"You can't just forgive me for that!"

“That’s actually the fun thing about forgiveness: the wronged party, i.e. me, actually has the ability to forgive whoever the hell they want. You have to just stand there and take it.”

_You don’t deserve to be forgiven._

“I don’t deserve to be forgiven!”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow. “Says who?”

Geralt shuffles awkwardly in response. He hadn’t meant to yell that, hadn’t meant to have any of this conversation. Damn Jaskier anyway for goading him into it.

“Geralt,” Jaskier insists patiently. “Says who? The hym? Because you know everything that demon said is complete bullshit-”

“No,” he shakes his head, stumbling over words to explain. “No. It was- You can look it up. The bestiary’s downstairs. ‘The individual’s own.’ It was- Hyms can encourage feelings, cause hallucinations, but everything it was saying it was- It wasn’t bullshit. It was things I already knew. Things that were already there.”

He had expected Jaskier to be horrified by the revelation, or possibly disgusted. He had tentatively hoped, in the best case scenario, for it to maybe elicit pity. Instead it sparks a fire in the bard’s eyes, like he always looks when he's about to charge full-tilt into an argument. “Just because the thoughts are truly in your head doesn’t mean they are true. You were wrong about me being dead. You were wrong about me wanting revenge. You were just wrong a minute ago about me wanting to leave, unless of course you’d like to argue about which one of us knows my own mind better. And let me warn you, that is not a fight you are going to win, my friend. I would say, given this evidence, it would be prudent to at least entertain the possibility that whatever is telling you you’re unforgivable is incorrect about that as well. It doesn’t seem to have a particularly great track record on facts.”

Which... actually sounds very reasonable when Jaskier says it. He can see how it makes a certain kind of sense. It’s just doesn't seem to apply to him. It just-

_This conversation was a mistake. You know what’s true. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know what it’s like. He doesn’t know what you’re really like._

_Except_ , the tiniest part of him finally argues back, _doesn’t he? You’d be hard pressed to say he hasn’t seen you at your absolute worst and he just said he’s not leaving._ It’s been backed into a corner for so long, almost starved to death, cut and bloody and cold and dirty, but apparently, stubbornly, not quite dead yet. And Jaskier’s determination to not comply with what Geralt ‘knows’ seems to bolster it like a shot of Swallow. _His wasn't attacking you. His words aren't something you need to run from or fight. It’s just a fact: you’ve been wrong before._

While Geralt stands dumbfounded in confusion, Jaskier presses his advantage. “Look. Everyone has a voice inside them telling them they’re not good enough, reminding them endlessly of their mistakes. Everyone has one, but it’s like, well, it’s like dogs. Some people get these small yappy things that sit in ladies’ laps and are utterly ignored most of the time. Some people get good working dogs, rat-catchers who ferret out vermin or sheepdogs, quiet but nippy when they need to be to keep the flock in line. Some people get wolves, merciless hunters that stalk them from the forest waiting to devour them as soon as they step wrong. And you can argue what kind of dog is best, whether the hedonists are right and conscience is just a little yappy pup we should ignore in the pursuit of pleasure or whether the priests are right and you need a wolf to keep you on the straight and narrow to save your mortal soul. That's a fight for the philosophers, not humble bards, but I can tell you what I know. What I’ve seen. And that is that, regardless of the results of those learned debates, some people, for whatever reason, definitely nothing they did or deserved, don't get dogs - domesticated or otherwise. They get fucking wargs. An unnatural monstrous corruption of the canine form. Evil beasts that don’t wait for a slip or a fall or a mistake. They just charge right into your house in bloody daylight and tear your damned throat out. No mercy. No logic. Just cruelty and wanton destruction. And the thing is, Geralt, the thing I really need you to believe, the one thing that is absolutely and undoubtedly true, is that no one deserves to get eaten by fucking wargs. No one.” Jaskier tentatively rests his hand on Geralt’s forearm. Geralt knows he can’t feel the scars through his coat and shirt, but he must know they are there. “When I said I was disappointed you were back to your old self, it’s because I was so glad to see you fight off the hym and I just wish, well, I just wish you wanted to fight the warg too.”

“Why?” is all he manages out loud; a single word standing in for a hundred anxious questions. Why would you stay with someone like me? Why won’t you go? Why can’t you see you deserve better? Why do you want me to get into another fight, one that is going to be infinitely harder and longer than against any demon? Why can’t you just let me fall?

Jaskier smiles softly, closes his eyes and leans in ‘til his forehead is warm against Geralt’s and his breath is warm on the witcher’s cheek. “I know some part of you knows the answer to that. You knew on the mountain, when you threw off the hym. It’s how you knew it was me.” He grins broadly and blushes a little. From this distance Geralt can feel it. “And there are no words to describe how pleased I am that that is how you know me: by what I unarguably feel for you.”

This is absurd. People don’t use the word ‘love’ around Geralt, even in alusion.

_He doesn’t love you._

_Then how did you know it was him?_

_Because Jaskier is kind to everyone._

_That’s a lie and you know it. He’s not a damned saint._

_Then it’s just pity, not love._

_You want to argue with him about what he’s feeling? You think he doesn't know his own mind? If anyone should know what love is, it's him._

_He can’t love you. No one can love you. It’s impossible._

_Is it? What if you're wrong? Is it worth the risk of missing out on this just to feel right about something you don’t even want to be true?_

_You can't just ignore what you know is right!_

_He didn't ask you to ignore it. He didn't even ask you to beat it. He just asked you to fight._

“Enough.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier backs a few inches away, so he can look quizzingly at his face.

But Geralt lets himself lean forward, bringing their foreheads back into contact, gathering from that touch the strength he’ll need for what he has to do if he wants to keep this. And damn him, he wants to keep this. “I don't know how to fight this."

"But you want to?" It’s barely above a whisper, but so full of hope it lands heavy in Geralt's heart. But he thinks he can find the strength to lift it.

"No one deserves to get eaten by wargs.”

Jaskier brings his arms up around him and clings tightly, seemingly content to let Geralt hang off him as long as he wants to. “No one deserves to get eaten by wargs.”

*

Geralt wakes from a dream of a red-suited ghost with a gasp. He ends up startling Yennefer and Jaskier, who are sitting on the end of the bed. He has to blink repeatedly before his pupils obligingly contract enough for him to focus, but as near as he can tell, Jaskier is trying to teach the sorceress Gwent over the unstable playing field of his feet. It’s a weird enough image that he isn't sure he’s not still dreaming and the three of them just sit and blink at each other in surprise for a moment before Jaskier finally breaks the silence.

“Good morning! Well, evening actually. We were supposed to come up here to wake you for dinner, but you looked so peaceful we didn’t want to disturb you. Have a nice nap?”

_You’re becoming a problem again, making them worry about you._

“It was fine.” Geralt can’t stop himself from instinctively checking the dark corners of the room.

Yennefer does not look convinced. With a gesture, the many candles they'd placed around the room burst into flame, chasing every shadow from sight. Following a particularly bad dream two weeks ago he'd haltingly told them it was easier to fight in the light and Yennefer had popped off to Velen and returned with an obscene number of pure beeswax candles. They had a soft, warm glow and the smell of sweet honey seemed to help soothe him as well. He still found it mildly embarrassing, who had ever heard of a witcher who was scared of the dark, but as silly as it made him feel, it still seemed to work. Room bright, Yennefer returns to her cards. “We weren’t worried, we are just creeps who like watching you sleep. Nightmare?”

Geralt runs a hand over his face, but knows there is little point lying to someone who can literally read your mind. “Yes, a nightmare.”

That’s another way they’ve found for Yennefer to help actually. Well Yennefer and of all people Lambert. During Jaskier’s extensive prodding regarding the voice that the bard insists on referring to as Geralt’s warg, he’d remembered the one thing that had actually shut it up briefly - when Lambert had objectively refuted it. Jaskier had wanted Geralt to immediately tell him everything the warg was saying so he could argue with it and Geralt had immediately decided that he didn’t actually want Jaskier to hear any of it, but they had eventually reached a compromise with Geralt promising to tell Jaskier one thing a day and letting Jaskier say one thing in return. The plan had fallen apart quite quickly though, since Geralt’s one thing every day was that he was worried this was too much work for Jaskier and the bard was getting frustrated with continually trying to reassure him that it wasn’t, which is when Jaskier had thought of asking Yennefer for help. With Geralt’s permission, she could listen in on the warg sometimes and help him refute it. Or at least share what it was saying so that someone else could refute it. It had taken a few days of Jaskier’s unrelenting encouragement to work up the courage to ask her, but she had agreed. Well, after he apologized to her. The very first thing she had then pulled out of his mind was the question of why she would even want to help him and she’d hit him with the book she was reading and given him a long rambling lecture about gardening as a metaphor that actually made more sense than he had expected it to. He is still finding honesty ridiculously challenging, but with Yennefer’s training wheels he is getting better at it. He’d even succeeded with Vesemir yesterday, when the old man had finally taken the bandages off his left forearm for good and examined his new ugly raised scars. With a small tremble in his voice, he’d repeated the warg’s words, "You must be so ashamed of me." Vesemir had obviously been surprised, but answered, "Scars are proof you fought. There are only two types of people with no scars: people whose plans always go perfectly and people who gave up without a fight. We're witchers, so our plans never go perfectly. Seems to me that you must have fought like hell."

“What was it about?” Jaskier has finished resetting the field Geralt’s kicking had disturbed. His nonchalance towards the topic actually makes it easier to talk. Like it isn’t a big deal.

“The hym. Well, your ghost actually.”

The bard reaches a hand out and lets Geralt run his fingers over his pulse, just to be sure. “I never did ask, but whyever did you think I was dead in the first place? The hym wouldn’t have been able to latch on to it if it hadn’t been in your mind already.”

Geralt decides to start at the beginning. “I burned the Reaver bodies then spent the night in the dragon cave. I picked up the trail of the dwarves returning to town on my way down the mountain, but you weren’t with them. When I caught up with them they said you hadn’t left with them. There were nekkers around and I thought- I was worried- I never thought you’d try the descent on your own. I went back to look for you.”

Yennefer and Jaskier exchange an incredulous look, before Yen asks, “That was it? That was all it took for you to decide he was dead?”

“Gods, you really think I’m that hopeless, don’t you? Eight minutes out of your sight and I get myself eaten by ogroids?”

“Actually,” Yennefer abruptly changes sides in the argument, “when you put it that way…”

They, to Geralt’s growing unease, seem to have come to some sort of agreement he is currently unaware of. Under the new terms, instead of cruel jibes they mostly just playfully needle each other and Jaskier now actually has the gall to swat at the sorceress. “Fine, I’m useless.” He turns back to the witcher, “But even so why did you think I was on my own?”

“You didn’t go down the mountain with the dwarves.” Geralt stares at him. His logic should be obvious.

Jaskier raises a brow. “Really? You thought that was the group I was going to follow? And not-”

He groans, finally seeing the error in his assumption. “Téa, Véa and Borch.”

“I chose to travel with the dragon and the beautiful women, yes.” Jaskier’s smile at his expense isn’t unkind, but Geralt still feels like an idiot for not thinking of it. “After his bodyguards were done suitably threatening me regarding the likelihood of my survival if any of our conversations or escapades were ever committed to verse, we actually got on quite well. They let me stay on with them as far as Pont Vanis actually and likely would have tolerated me longer, but they wanted to stay in the north and I had had enough of the mountains for a while, so I caught a ship to Novigrad.” He looks a little sheepish as he continues, “I then spent most of the summer dead drunk touring the bigger cities in Redania singing some very mean and melancholy songs. At the time I thought we both just needed some time to cool our heads. I mean clearly I wasn’t willing to give you that much time since by autumn I was loitering in Ard Carraigh hoping to catch you on your way here, but I had no idea you were wandering Kovir looking for me!”

“I wasn’t.” Geralt interrupts, not wanting Jaskier to feel responsible. “At least not long. I found a body, a skeleton picked clean. I gathered the bones trying to- trying to see if I could figure out if it was you. I couldn’t see any identifying features, or any of your stuff, but when your ghost appeared that seemed to cinch it.”

“Fucking hym.” Jaskier curses.

“How long did it take you to find that?” Yennefer is staring very resolutely at her hands.

Geralt isn’t completely sure why it matters. “Three days.”

She clenches her hands and scoffs. “So you were already,” she can’t seem to find the word she wants and so just moves on with the sentence, “for months and I just left you.”

Yennefer feeling responsible is even more ridiculous than Jaskier feeling responsible. “I didn’t tell you. How were you supposed to know?”

She continues to stare at her hands, or he realizes, more precisely her wrists. “I should have known.”

Jaskier tentatively takes her hand and squeezes it. Although instead of letting him comfort her for long she quickly pulls it out of his grasp and crosses her arms across her chest. Instead of being rebuffed or insulted the bard just rolls his eyes at her. He’s been taking more and more liberties with her temper as the winter has rolled on. Miraculously, Yennefer’s been giving ground.

Having answered their questions, Geralt realizes he has one of his own. “How did you discover that it was a hym?”

Yennefer shrugs. “I told Eskel that Jaskier was dead when I asked for his help with the forktail. Then I found him,” she nods towards the bard, “in Ard Carraigh where he was pathetically pining after you like a kicked dog.”

“I was performing and you fainted from awe like a blushing schoolgirl. Don’t be embarrassed, dear. My talent frequently has that effect on people.”

“You fainted?” The more Geralt hears of this story the less sense it makes.

Yennefer pointedly ignores the question and continues her explanation. “I verified he wasn’t some illusion or doppler-”

“You threatened me with a knife.”

“And then Lambert and Eskel burst in and made their own assessment of his humanity.”

“Lambert threatened me with a sword.”

“And once we were all satisfied Jaskier was, sadly, still with us.”

“You literally told me you were happy to see me. And hugged me!”

“They told us they were looking for you because you were being haunted by a hym. So I located you and opened a portal-”

“And then I caught you!” Jaskier is unmistakably pleased with himself.

“And then I caught you.” Yennefer corrects.

"And then Yennefer helped catch you, since apparently that’s something she can do. Now." Jaskier magnanimously concedes.

"What?” The sorceress stands, working herself into a tiff at what she thinks is the implicit accusation. “Are you suggesting I just let Borch and his bodyguards fall before? That I just cold-heartedly decided I didn't want the competition on the dragon hunt? Or maybe I just didn't care hard enough to expend the energy?"

Jaskier stares back, unintimidated. “I think it's the first thing you researched how to do when you got back."

Flushing and flustered, Yennefer storms off. Jaskier just smiles at her departure. He turns back to Geralt and adds in a conspiratorial tone, “You know, I wish I’d figured out that insinuating I know she’s a good person deep down works so much better at winning arguments than insulting her years ago. It’s so much more fun too!”

Part of him wants to ask what happened between the bard and the sorceress, their dynamic together is familiar and yet somehow fundamentally changed, but that seems like a question for another day. And for when Yennefer is actually present. “Lambert and Eskel came too. How could you have possibly beat them to me?”

“Ah. Well. Vesemir actually had the same question for your abashed brothers. It seems that upon arriving magically in an unexpected location they are trained to take a second to assess the situation before committing to any potential action. I, on the other hand, started running for you as soon as I saw you.” He seems so comfortable laughing at his own foolhardiness. “And then I bared my heart and soul like the hero in a fairy story and true love won the day! Well, true love and three silver swords. Well, true love, three silver swords and some light from Yennefer.” Jaskier gathers the discarded cards and shuffles up the bed to sit beside Geralt, taking his hand as he does so. This is new too, the increased physicality between them, but it’s nice and Geralt is working really hard on letting himself have nice things. He’s going to have to ask Jaskier what it means eventually, and figure out why he feels like that’s also a conversation Yennefer should be around for, but he’s content for now to let that loom unhurriedly in the future. Jaskier squeezes his hand before continuing, “I know I said it before, but I really am so glad my speech worked. My next idea to prove myself was a lot less, well, powerful. I would have hated to have to use it after a performance like that!”

He knows it’s a setup. He’s known Jaskier for long enough to recognize a setup. He walks into it anyways. “What was your backup plan then?”

“I was going to point out that I was wearing a new doublet and that you lack the imagination to ever match my fashion sense.”

The truly ridiculous thing is that, thinking about it logically, it probably would have worked. Even now Geralt couldn’t have told you what Jaskier was wearing that night, only that it wasn’t the red outfit he’d been wearing on the dragon hunt and that Geralt had been seeing on the hym at the beginning, before the monster faded into solely shadows. It’s so ludicrous, to imagine that Jaskier passionately bemoaning Geralt’s lack of attention to his wardrobe would have unseated the demon, that Geralt actually laughs. He can’t help himself. Him, of all people, saved by fashion. He realizes it’s the first time he’s laughed like that since, well, since before the dragon hunt. Even more surprisingly, he realizes he wants to laugh again. “Come on.” He smacks Jaskier on the leg as he gets out of bed. “Let’s go find Yen and dinner.”

*

It’s a bad day.

_They’re all bad days._

It feels true right now, but Geralt reminds himself that it isn’t. Two weeks ago he was drinking with Eskel in White Orchard; that was not a bad day. So he says, “No they aren’t.” In the last two years, he’s found it helps to say it out loud, especially when he’s alone.

_They will all be bad days._

He has to concede that it had been an awful hunt. A werewolf who hadn’t even known he was changing had hired Geralt to seek out and destroy the monster that murdered his family: his wife and two young daughters. That it was a werewolf had been easy to determine; that the man himself was the werewolf had been harder. When Geralt had brought him the evidence that he was cursed and that they needed to take precautions so he wouldn’t hurt anyone else while they worked on breaking the curse, he’d nodded and seemed to accept it. Geralt found him hanging from a rafter in his cottage the next day. Those were undoubtedly bad days. But he’s meeting Jaskier in Oxenfurt tomorrow and going to stay for two weeks while the bard teaches a seminar at the academy. And maybe it will be awful, but he doesn't know that and honestly, their history doesn’t seem to suggest it will be. History suggests he's going to spend two weeks being pampered in the bard's bed. So he says aloud, “You don’t know that.”

_You sound like an idiot, talking to yourself. It’s stupid. You think you’d be better by now._

It’s always frustrating, thinking about how little progress he’s actually made. It always makes him run the fingers of his right hand over the scars he carved on his left arm. It makes him want to do something to relieve the tension, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t, since the hym. Which, he reminds himself, is progress. So he clenches his fist and repeats what Lambert told him when he’d asked his brother why he wasn’t teasing him about his candles. “It can’t be stupid if it works. It would be stupid to not do something you know works.” Thinking of the candles, he goes to Roach’s saddlebag to retrieve one. There are still a few hours of daylight left, but the sight and scent of it are still comforting.

_Really? You're comfortable needing a security blanket like a child?_

“The point,” he quotes Vesemir at the warg, “is to make the fight as easy for yourself as possible, whatever that means, be it potions, blade oils, gathering more information or candles. That’s how witchers fight.” When he gets to his tack to search the saddlebag, Roach nickers in anticipation, which distracts him and makes him smile. The witcher walks over to the dark grey stallion and rubs his neck. Candles aren't the only thing that helps him fight. Moving usually helps too. “You want to run for a bit, boy?”

As soon as the snows had cleared that winter, he’d been down the path with Eskel and Jaskier and travelling back to Kovir. Roach, like Geralt, would sooner walk then teleport when given the option, so between her temperament and the impracticality of retrieving her in winter, Geralt had been forced to wait. He brought all the money the farrier had given him, plus some, and they’d picked up the energetic stallion on the way and Geralt’s plan had been to offer the much younger horse and money in trade for Roach. When they’d arrived, the farrier had been amenable to the trade but after taking one look at her daughter on the horse now called Firefly, giggling and prancing and braiding spring flowers in her mane, Geralt hadn’t had the heart to ask for her back. Besides, Firefly was 21 now and while she’d been pleased to see Geralt, she was also obviously happy being pampered and doting on her teenage charge. He had asked about the girl about the name change, out of curiosity, and she had told him that she knew the horse’s name had been Roach once, but roaches were ugly insects. She’d wanted to change it, but still respect the original name and so had gone with Firefly, since they were pretty: delicate little specs of floating light in the darkness. Geralt had to admit, it suited her. It didn’t seem worth mentioning that her first name had been after the fish, not the bug. So he’d said a proper goodbye and thank you to Firefly and left town on the dark grey stallion Roach. He is six now and still full of fire and loves to run like the river loves the sea. He tosses his mane and stamps in response to Geralt’s question. He always wants to keep moving.

They can’t make Oxenfurt tonight, but they can get a few hours closer. He resaddles Roach, packs up his camp and gives the horse his head. By the time they stop again the sun has sunk below the horizon. He brushes Roach down well, pulls out his bedroll and some dried jerky and builds a bonfire, much larger than he strictly needs for either warmth or light, but he wants it to burn ‘til dawn. The warg is still howling viciously inside him chasing away sleep, despite the light and despite the exhaustion from the gallop settling in his bones.

_You’re never going to get rid of me._

“Fuck off.” If he can’t sleep, he can at least meditate. It helps him clear his mind to remember there’s a xenovox in Roach’s saddlebags; if it gets to be too much he can always call Yennefer. She may be annoyed at having to interrupt her plans for him, but she has very adamantly impressed upon him in no uncertain terms that she will always be more annoyed if he needs her and doesn’t call. He doesn’t think it will come to that though. He has this under control. It’s going to be a long, hard night with the warg, but he isn’t afraid. If there is one thing Geralt of Rivia knows how to do it’s fight monsters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘teacher’ Jaskier quotes to Geralt is the real-life poet Kait Rokowski who wrote "Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends, and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red."
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading! This whole thing was a bit out of my comfort zone, so I really appreciate people letting me know what they thought of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to give this tumblr thing a try, so if you want to chat about this fic, or anything else really (I like talking), I'm at: [octinary.tumblr.com](https://octinary.tumblr.com)
> 
> PinkAxolotl85 has done an absolutely amazing fanart for the scene in Chapter 1 where Geralt meets 'Jaskier!' Check it out [here](https://pinkaxolotl85.tumblr.com/post/636538081494876160/he-thinks-oh-and-falls-to-his-knees-before)!
> 
> Gerrito has also done a wonderfully fantastic fanart for the fic! Check it out [here](https://gerrito.tumblr.com/post/636773017197953025/i-drew-fanart-for-him-by-octinary-its-quite)!


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